A Song For Heart and Soul
by AthenaSophia85
Summary: Tauriel dies, but Kili lives: he must now accept a crown he never wanted. His first challenge is to rebuild Erebor, but master masons are now hard to come by among Durin's folk. Enter Kivi, a dwarf-maid from the Northern Waste: master mason and ill-tempered exile in search of an ally. Both have what the other needs, but not necessarily in the way that either one expects.
1. Prologue: Before and Behind

_**A/N:**_ The great silver screen saga of our time is over...and like many (I imagine), I feel rather bereft. I've been watching the LOTR saga in theaters since I was about 16 years old. I can remember every theater I was in; who I saw each movie with. I remember where I was when I read the books, even, in my middle-school years; I remember who my favorite characters were - characters that have stayed favorites even in their Peter Jackson re-imaginings. I was devastated as young tween-something, when Kili, Fili, and Thorin died, the first time I read _The Hobbit_. Needless to say, my love of them has only grown as an adult viewer of _The Hobbit_ trilogy and I sort of feel like I've lost first loves all over again, now that I've suffered through the inevitability of _Battle of the Five Armies_.

I have _long _thought about writing a Tolkien fanfiction - one in which at least one of Durin's sons survives. I've finally gotten over my reservations and so..._A Song For Heart and Soul_ is born. The title comes from Neil Finn's amazing _Song of the Lonely Mountain_. The basic premise is that Kíli survives the Battle of the Five Armies and is unceremoniously thrust into a responsibility he _never _anticipated. The most immediate concern facing the dwarves of Erebor is the physical rebuilding of their kingdom under the mountain; the second is procuring a new heir apparent for Durin's folk. Needless to say, a heart-broken Kíli is not excited by either expectation.

I'm introducing a "new" dwarven House here that isn't really "new", but isn't ever mentioned in any of the cannon material (although, Tolkien mentions them in his notes and tertiary writings). Kíli's counterpart in _A Song For Heart and Soul_ is Kivi - the sole remaining heir of the Stiffbeards. The Stiffbeards are one of the Seven Houses of the dwarves and there is _some _knowledge of their culture/etc, but not much. I've take liberties, aided by the Tolkien Gateway, the LOTR Wiki and the Middle Earth Role Playing Wiki.

Because my significant other is of strong Finnish descent, I was able to recognize how the Stiffbeards are straight-up based on the Finns in their expanded description in the MERP wiki. I've expanded that and woven in strong Finnish elements, to include words and other cultural references. So there's no mind-stopping shock, I've made the Stiffbeards a matriarchal House. I have, however, done my best to make them as believable in the context of Middle Earth as I know how; given their strong Finnish and Scandinavian influence in more recent "expanded literature", I don't think that making them a matriarchal House is a completely unbelievable stretch of imagination. But, constructive criticisms are always welcome! New terms and some of the more obscure "cannon" terms will be included in a **reference** at the end of each chapter.

And the story, my friends, goes from there...

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><p>"<em>Far over the Misty Mountains rise,<em>

_Leave us standing upon the height."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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><p><strong>Ibriznurt 'Afdush 8th, 2941 T.A.<strong>

_(Sunday, November 10th) _

_**Erebor**_

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><p>Kíli stood in the middle of the wall-walk and gazed solemnly out beyond the parapets above Erebor's vast entrance. He was tempted to lean against the ancient stones and shift some of the pressure of standing so tall off of his "compromised" leg. That was a term Balin had coined - Kíli had given the older dwarf a scowl at the suggestion, but it did sound better than "bad", or "eternally damaged", or "near-useless". The excitement and movement from Lake Town, through Erebor, and through the Battle of the Five Armies had left little time for the leg that had been wounded escaping from the Greenwood to heal properly. The poison had surely been removed from his blood and body, but even Elvish healing couldn't completely replace the need for skin and bone to knit back together on their own.<p>

He would have a "compromised leg" for the rest of his life, Oin had told him reluctantly. During his youth, the leg would probably give him little trouble, although stress of battle and strenuous exertion would cause him to limp. So, it was not an immediate deterrent - a weakness that few ever needed to know about, Dwalin had insisted. The last thirty-one days of rest and mourning had helped what of his leg could be healed, but even so, standing straight with the heavy weight of a king's robe made Kíli's knee tremble ever-so slightly in the beginning stages of protest.

Or, perhaps, the weakness in his knee was just an illusion, conjured by his weary mind. Kíli stared forlornly out across the great, flat plain that stretched between Erebor's gates and Dale. The earth was still torn from battle, the bottom edges of the mountain still singed, the sparse remaining trees still broken beneath the soft mantle of winter's first snow. He refused to lift his eyes toward the frozen waterfall in the distance, or to the towering rock formations known as Ravenhill, where he had watched the three beings he loved the most fall forever beneath the cruel swords of Azog and Bolg.

_I should be dead, too,_ he thought, his hands curling into fists of anger against the deep blue wool of his finely-woven robe.

He could have sworn that he been dead, too. His mind racing, Kíli reached up with one broad hand and rubbed that still-tender wound on his chest, beneath the weight of his royal finery. Only the joint efforts of Radagast and Gandalf had brought him back to the living lands; Radagast had said that the severity of the wound had indeed all but killed him by the time he was found, broken and bleeding, on the icy stones of Ravenhill.

Oin could handle what was left in the wake of the wizards' healing and the jagged hole that Bolg's orc-forged weapon had left just above his heart was all but scarred over now. Kíli didn't think, though, that he would ever forget the cold that Bolg's wicked steel had pierced into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed, too, that grief reawakened that fiery, blue-cold pain; every time he turned with a joke on the tip of his tongue, only to see that it was now Dwalin who stood beside him and not Fíli, Kíli could feel ice move beneath his scar tissue and freeze the blood straight into his heart.

It was no better if he thought of Thorin. It was, perhaps, not quite so painful to remember Tauriel - but the loss of Thorin and Fíli cut far past flesh and muscle, and straight into Kíli's once-untarnished soul. It seemed - especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his uncle's kingdom on his shoulders - that Bolg's steel was still killing him slowly from the inside.

"Oh, there you are," a familiar tenor voice jolted Kíli from his dark reverie and he dropped his hand back to his side as he turned slowly around to watch Bilbo huff-and-puff up the last of the stairs. "Balin and Dwalin are beside themselves…"

The little fellow stopped and rested his hands on his knees, so that he could take a moment to catch his breath. Kíli raised a thick black eyebrow - once a smile would have accompanied such a movement, but now his lips stayed firmly drawn in a neutral line. It was the best that he could manage these days - not quite his uncle's infamous scowl, but not the easy, roguish grin of before. It was something in-between and nothing at all. Kíli - who, as any archer, had long ago learned to observe dispassionately from the background - now relied heavily on that aspect of his training, to help him tamper down the grief and harrowing pain that felt like it would ravage his soul straight to the grave.

"You look as if you've run the whole way from the mines," Kíli pointed out with just the faintest note of alarm - the last thing he wanted was the dearly beloved hobbit to fall over from a failure of his heart.

"Oh, gracious, no," Bilbo still leaned a hand against his right knee, but lifted his left and flapped it at Kíli in a gesture of dismissal. "Just from the kitchens, y'know? I ran into Nori while running an errand for Bombur and he said Dwalin was looking for you, but didn't want to tell him that he'd seen you head this way. We both thought it best if I find you first."

"Why didn't Nori come and find me, then?" Kíli huffed in something remotely related to a laugh.

"Oh, well…" Bilbo finally seemed to have caught his breath and he stood up to his full height - which was about chest-high to the dwarf in front of him. "I think he was trying to chase a-erm," the hobbit coughed uncomfortably, eyed Kíli warily, and then blurted out - "Well, one of the new dwarf-maids."

Kíli just snorted and rolled his dark-brown eyes. The first wave of families from the Iron Hills had arrived just the other day and already half of his uncle's company was chasing after skirts. Only he, Balin, Glóin, Bofur, and Bifur were - by all appearances - completely disinterested. Kíli was quite certain that he'd never be able to find himself attracted to a dwarf-maiden. Not after such longing for smooth, creamy skin, long, silky red hair, and slender limbs…

Unfortunately, the crown that was wäiting for him in the throne room down below dictated by dwarven law that he at least find a dwarf-maiden attractive long enough to create an heir for Durin's people. The thought made Kíli a little ill. Dwarven law also dictated quite a lot of other things about such a union, including that Kíli wed said dwarven-maid before creating said Durin's heir.

J_ust what I've always wanted: a loveless marriage, _he thought bitterly, as Bilbo (oblivious to the dwarf prince's thoughts) pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead.

In all actuality, the entirety of the long existence ahead of him was filled with a veritable catalog of all the things he never wanted - the least of which, really, was producing an heir. That was probably one of the few, potentially _titillating_ expectations on the agenda.

"I suppose I should go and get on with it then," Kíli spoke as if to himself as he turned his head back toward the battlements and squinted resentfully at the wan, but cheerful winter midday sun.

"Hm, not quite yet. King Thranduil wishes to speak to you," Bilbo twisted his waist around and peered behind him toward the long flight of stairs below them.

Kíli leaned a bit to the side as well and raised another eyebrow as he watched the Silvan king lift the edge of his long, silvery robes and start the steep ascent to where the soon-to-be dwarven king stood. His lips threatened to turn down into a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of his uncle's.

"What in Mahal's name does he want to speak to me about?" he glanced over at Bilbo, as if the hobbit was expected to know.

The smaller, tousle-headed man just shrugged his shoulders.

"Who's to say?"

"Well...best you go find Balin and tell him I'll be on my way. If he grumbles about me being late, blame it on the Elf."

Bilbo smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Kíli had never been, in his experience, a secretive or evasive dwarf. Rather, the youngest prince of Erebor had been quite well known for his reckless youth and fervent passions; he wore his heart on his sleeve as apparently as his brother had worn the dignity of his royal fate. But, things had now changed...the heir and the heir apparent to the Lonely Mountain were now buried in its depths, both slain by Azog. The youngest prince of Durin - the one who had never expected to rule the dwarrow of Middle Earth - would bear the crown of the King Under the Mountain within the hour. And when he had come to that realization within moments of seeing his felled brother and uncle, Kíli had drawn deep within himself.

Bilbo wasn't the only one who feared that such a change was ultimately irrevocable.

"Certainly," the hobbit bowed his head slightly and scampered off past Kíli toward the flight of stairs on the opposite side of the wall-walk.

Kíli watched until the hobbit's sandy-blond head had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the keep. Only then did he turn his eyes forward, to see the tall spires of Thranduil's crown arise majestically one step at a time. Within moments, the elf stepped onto the wall-walk, his movements as straight-backed, elegant, and carefully calculated as always.

"Prince Kíli," Thranduil greeted Kíli in his strange, precise, otherworldly way.

"King Thranduil," Kíli rumbled back; the two inclined their heads politely toward one another. "Master Baggins tells me that you wish to speak to me?" the dwarf's sharp brown eyes met the elf's ethereal blues.

"Yes," Thranduil tucked his hands slowly into the voluminous folds of his silver overcoat; Kíli wondered if the woodland king was purposefully looking down at his nose at him, or if it was just a habit so ingrained into Thranduil's being that he didn't even notice it anymore. "As the eldest ruler gathered here today for your coronation, I thought I might offer counsel before taking on the responsibilities of your crown."

_My uncle's crown_, Kíli stubbornly corrected Thranduil, but didn't dare speak it out loud; his insistence that he should not be given the weight of his forefathers' legacy had been soundly rejected at every turn so far.

He was learning to keep his resentment to himself.

_I'm going to turn into Uncle,_ he added to himself, before realizing that Thranduil's mouth was moving again and maybe it was best if he at least pretended to give a damn.

"...Prince Kíli?"

Kíli focused just soon enough to hear Thranduil prompt him with the full force of his gracious condescension. The young dwarf rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth, but met the elder elf's gaze and nodded tersely.

"Please forgive me, I have been given quite a lot of advice to consider these past few days. My head feels rather...full."

"Indubitably," Thranduil placidly agreed.

Kíli wondered what in Mahal "indubitably" even meant.

"I will wager, however, that the advice from one king to another is quite different from subjects to their ruler," Thranduil moved as fluidly as water, as he took the few steps to stand next to Kíli, who grudgingly turned as well to follow the elf's gaze over the battlements.

There was a delicate pause and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his boots. Was he supposed to say something back? By Durin's beard, this was excruciatingly awkward.

"You have honored my people, Prince Kíli, with the return of our gems," Thranduil paused, as if considering his next words; Kíli continued to fidget. "You also honored us in your devotion to my Captain of the Guard."

Kíli froze and couldn't stop blinking up at the taller, pale-haired elf in sheer amazement. He really didn't know what to say now, but at least he had enough royal comportment drilled into him by Balin by now not to gape like a young dwarfling at Thranduil's startling proclamation.

"I witnessed your mourning on the battlefield," Thranduil did not return the dwarf's gaze; the elf stood as still as the stones around him, his icy gaze fixed firmly at Dale sprawling out before them. "And I pray your forgiveness of my intrusion in such a private moment. But, I speak of it only to tell you that I have witnessed such a scene long before and though I thought it impossible, I must admit that you have moved me to honor what was real."

Only then, did Thranduil turn his head and meet Kíli's stunned gaze. The elven king's face was as dispassionate as ever, as serene and unreadable as always. But, there was an unexpected compassion in his eyes that puzzled Kíli as much as it surprised him.

"When you take Thrór's crown as your own, Prince of Durin, you may wish to consider that your people are scattered. But, perhaps, there are many that would still be loyal among those who may still yet wander, or have once already given your people aid from the East."

Both of Kíli's eyebrows rose as the meaning of Thranduil's words began to sink in.

"I do not deign to know nor understand the ways of dwarves, but the ruling of a kingdom is not so different, I wager, between our kind. The exile of your people will have changed many things, Prince Kíli," Thranduil turned his head gracefully to consider the parapets in front of him and he even reached out a hand to run his slender fingers meaningfully over a jagged crack that ran from the top of one merlon, down to the very floor at their feet. "You will find that more than just these stones may have been broken."

Those cold, strange eyes captured Kíli's gaze for a final time.

"Learn from your history, Prince Kíli. And," the Elf paused delicately, his next words spoken slowly, as if they cost him. "And, also from mine. Do not rule solely from within your lonely halls. If you wish to honor your people and the memory of my Captain, then rebuild more than just what lays inside these ancient stones," Thranduil finally broke his gaze with Kíli and wordlessly invited him to turn and consider the halls and hallows yawning open beneath them. "You must ever be a king, with your vision both behind you and before you."

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><p><strong>Adadnurt, 'Afgargablâ 1st, 2942 T.A.<strong>

_(Wednesday, April 30th)_

**Dol Amroth, Gondor**

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><p>"No, no, no, I will <em>not<em>," Kivi Journeyman stomped resolutely around the corner base of Dol Amroth's seawall; her heavy-toed boots kicked up chips of stone and mortar that littered the grassy knoll hugging the inside of the tall stone defense.

"But,_** Äiti**_ -" [_"Mother"_]

"No 'buts'!" Kivi didn't even bother glancing over her shoulder at her determined companion.

She threw up her right hand and shook her head; her thick, shoulder-length hair glinted a coppery blonde in the setting sun. She stopped next to one of the many scaffolds that towered over the knoll and bore silent testimony to the extent of the reconstruction that was being done to one of Dol Amroth's most assaulted walls. She peered up toward the saffron-streaked sky and pursed her lips in irritation.

"The seawall will be reinforced in a matter of weeks," her companion - an unusually tall, unusually slender dwarf - crossed his bulging arms over his equally bulging chest and dug his heels stubbornly into the spring-softened earth beneath his boots. "And then what will you do? You've all but single-handedly turned Dol Amroth into the most fortified and structurally stable fortress in Middle Earth!"

"Work always comes, Seppä," Kivi finally graced her fellow dwarf with a dour, side-long glance.

"Work has come _now_," Seppä insisted, his voice starting to heat ever so slightly in anger.

"No," Kivi's frost-blue eyes turned quickly away, but Seppä saw the calculated look that flashed briefly across her broad, but winsomely proportional face.

The black-haired smith took a deep, steadying breath.

_ She's as stubborn as her mother ever was,_ he thought, but after a moment, his rueful musing turned hopeful. _But, she has just as much of her father's common sense._

"_Äiti_," Seppä addressed Kivi again and this time, his tone was level and persuasive. "It is a great honor that is being offered. You heard the King's messenger - there are few true master masons among Durin's sons. There are not enough to rebuild Erebor, nor is there one skilled enough to lead such a noble endeavor."

"I have only been at my craft for ten years," Kivi remained seemingly unmoved, but Seppä could see enough of her profile to notice the way her eyes narrowed, as she was wont to do when turning over the angles of a blueprint in her mind.

"You first picked up your mother's mason's mallet when you were but 51 years old. You're a young and thriving lass of 83 now. Remove your three years in captivity and you have been at your craft for 29 years."

"My mother was _**Kivi-Mestari**_ and it took her 45 years to claim that title." ["_Stone-Master_"]

"And you have your mother's skill. Better, even, I would say."

"Flattery does not become you, Seppä," Kivi finally lowered her gaze from the dying sun sinking below the crenelations above them and turned to stalk across the knoll toward the garrison door forty or so paces away.

"'Tis mere fact, _äiti_, and you know it," Seppä followed with dogged patience.

"You shouldn't call me _äiti_," Kivi had fought with Seppä about her hereditary title for ten whole years, so the argument was well-worn and she knew by now she wasn't going to win it.

That didn't stop her from reminding her dwarven elder ever so often that she was still uncomfortable with the fate her mother had left to her.

"Your mother did not Twice Name you for the idle satisfaction of her own hopes and fears," the sturdy smith followed his red-blonde chieftain across the newly growing grass. "The line of _**Kivi Torni**_ survives in you, _**Päällikkö**_. You are _äiti_ if you wish it or not." ["_Stone Tower_"] ["_Chieftain_"]

"Are you done nagging me, you gray-bearded hag?" Kivi pushed the heavy oak door in front of them open; her expression was sour, and Seppä was still insisting that she was his superior, but she still held the door open dutifully for the older blacksmith.

"As a matter of point, no I am not," Seppä smiled winningly at her as he passed her by; slight for a dwarf the smith might have been, but he still had wider shoulders than most of Gondor's men and he had to turn to the side slightly in order to fit through the width of the door frame.

Kivi followed with far greater ease.

"You cannot lie to me and say that you do not long for _Kivi Torni_, or for justice," Seppä continued as he waited for Kivi to pass him; the two then made their way up a steep flight of stairs. "To rebuild Erebor would forge an alliance between the lines of Durin and _**Thulin**_ that would be near unbreakable. Their new king now holds the allegiance of the dwarves in the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains - such a force could easily help you reclaim _Kivi Torni_."

"And what would this new King Under the Mountain want in exchange for such a campaign, I wonder?" Kivi retorted dryly; Seppä saw her eyes flash in the light of a passing torch and he suddenly realized that he had lost his argument.

There was a long, expectant pause, before the smithy replied reluctantly:

"He would probably ask for your hand in marriage. An alliance by marriage between Durin and Thulin would triple the wealth of both houses and the numbers of their sons to our daughters would make our two houses strong for generations."

"I can hear it in your voice, Seppä - all of this sounds quite wonderful. A dwarf-maiden's dream and a pragmatic solution to the ills of Thulin's House," Kivi stopped briefly on a landing and turned her body squarely toward Seppä. "But you forget - the sons of Durin know nothing of our culture or our ways. They may treasure their women, but not like the sons of Thulin do ours. If I were to create an allegiance to the King Under the Mountain through service or marriage, I would never truly rule _Kivi Torni_ as my mothers before me. I would either be voiceless as his queen, locked safely away in Erebor, or I would be his regent, powerless to rule the Frost Dwarves as my own, except through acts of blatant rebellion."

Seppä's old heart broke a little at the look of fear, defiance, and horror that flickered across Kivi's face like the flames on the wall beside them.

"I will not free my people from the grasp of one greedy old dwarf, to place it in the hands of another."

"The _**Longbeards**_ are an honorable folk, though -" Seppä tried to rally his last final hope, but Kivi dismissed it with a contemptuous snort.

"That's what was said about the _**Stonefoots**_, too," her blue eyes flashed as cold as a northern glacier, before she whirled on the heel of her boot and stormed angrily up the next flight of stairs. "And they made orphans of my nephew and niece."

Seppä sighed heavily - there was no reasoning with Kivi when she was like this. His heart sank at the thought that the best chance his conquered people had was slowly burning to ash in the fire of their last chief's bitterness. The two traveled in silence up the winding stairwell, through a maze-like stretch of empty hallways, and up into the warmer, more populated levels of Dol Amroth.

This had been Seppä's home for ten years - it was here that Kivi had finally settled, in the hopes of making a stable life for the twin dwarflings left in her care. Ten years, Seppä had worked hard at establishing a reputation as a master smith, which wasn't hard, since he had been such long before his exile from the wild Northern Wastes. But, he had been ever restless, ever hopeful that Kivi could heal her desecrated soul.

He could not imagine - nor did he want to - what she had endured at the greedy hands of Synkkä, lord of the treacherous _**Ironfist**_ dwarrow. Yet, it was in times like this, when he tried to reason with her and tried to persuade her to see the necessity of forging an alliance with the sons of Durin (the strongest and largest house of dwarves in the West), that he secretly feared the grace of spirit that she had inherited from her _**Umli**_ father had been forever erased by Synkkä's lust.

All Kivi ever heard when Seppä tried to talk of an alliance, was that any such thing would destroy her hopes of freedom. Seppä knew that for all the time that had passed, for all of Katrikki's elven healing, Kivi deeply feared dwarven men and the power they could wield over her, simply because of the differences in their cultures.

And she was right - an alliance with the King Under the Mountain, with any son of the_** Khazâd**_, would only result in the subservience of her ancestral authority. The eastern dwarven houses the of Orocarni, or "the Red Mountains", had been left largely forgotten by their Western cousins. Only the Ironfists had made a name for themselves long ago, by waging a foolish and ill-attempted war against the "Longbeards".

The Stonefoots, the _**Blacklocks**_ and Thulin's House, the "_**Stiffbeards**_", had answered the call of Thror during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs after the fall of Erebor. But, all of Thulin's unmarried sons and daughters who went to war for the displaced King Under the Mountain never came back home to _Kivi Torni_. Any chance that Durin's sons had of knowing more about their northern kin had died on the plain of Azanulbizar.

Those remaining in the far northern regions of the Red Mountains, in _Kivi Torni_ and the surrounding Wastes, honored the memory of Thrór and Thráin. Kivi's mother had remained ever loyal to the aid of Durin's sons. But, Seppä remembered _Äiti_ Taavi's solemn explanation for why they did not do more to help their exiled kin - her reasoning was the same as Kivi's.

No daughter of Thulin wished to give up her birthright. They were the rarest of dwarven kind - members of the only house where daughters were born in plenty. As a result, they enjoyed the freedoms of a matriarchal culture built on the strength of their numbers in contrast to the scarcity of their sons.

Seppä had been born and raised to respect the power and privilege of all Stiffbeard women. Theirs was a peaceful society, a quiet house of carefully understated wealth; unlike other houses, there was little inequality between the expectations of man and women. Seppä was proud of his people, proud to call himself Thulin's Son, proud to swear fealty to his bright-haired _äiti_, even as young as she was.

But, he was beginning to wonder if the world was changing too rapidly for the Stiffbeards to survive as they had for centuries. What sacrifices would Kivi have to face, in order to save her people from the utter subjugation of the invading Ironfists? And how long would they all have to wait, wander, and wonder before she finally swallowed her dwarven pride and allied herself with Kíli Thorinkin, King Under the Mountain?

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><p><strong>Reference<strong>

_**Kivi**_ – means "stone". This is a hereditary/ceremonial title, taken on by the Stiffbeard's chieftain when she assumes head of the House.

_**Äiti**_ – means "mother". The more informal, affectionate title for the Stiffbeard chieftain.

_**Kivi Torni**_ – means "stone tower". The Stiffbeard's name for their ancestral mountain home.

_**Päällikkö **_– means "chieftain". Official title of the Stiffbeard chieftain.

_**Thulin**_ – the father of the Stiffbeards; one of the Seven Fathers of the dwarrow.

_**Longbeards**_ – another name for Durin's House/kin/folk/sons; the most famous Dwarven House in Middle-Earth.

_**Stonefoots**_ – the third eastern House of dwarves, in the center-south of the massive Orocarni range in the kingdom of Rhun.

_**Ironfists**_ – the second eastern House of dwarves, in the center-north of the Orocarni range, closest to the Stiffbeards.

_**Umli **_– "half-dwarves" of the Northern Wastes.

_**Khazâd**_ – the dwarrow word for their own race.

_**Blacklocks**_ – the fourth eastern House of dwarves, in the far south of the Orocarni range, the farthest flung of any of the Seven Houses.

_**Stiffbeards**_ – the first eastern House of dwarves, in the far north of the Orocarni range, closest to the Iron Hills. The only matriarchal House and the only eastern House that truly recognizes the sovereignty of Durin's Sons (though they do not swear fealty). Often called "Frost Dwarves" and/or "Thulin's folk/kin/sons/daughters".


	2. A Dire Need

"_What was before, we see once more -_

_Our kingdom, a distant light."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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><p><strong>Thatrnurt 'Afkalm 29th, 2943 T.A.<strong>

_(Saturday May 16th)_

_**Erebor**_

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><p>Kíli was sprawled unceremoniously across the great oak chair that the Woodland elves had given to him as a coronation present. His dark eyes watched the heated debate raging down the length of the enormous, polished cherry-wood table, but he kept his own council for the moment. He fiddled his left thumb between forefinger and ring finger of the same hand, and ran a scarred knuckle across his teeth from time to time.<p>

Balin had long ago give up the fight over Kíli's comportment when in private - the youngest crowned king of Durin's line stubbornly insisted on abiding by his own bad habits when he was behind closed doors. One thick calf was slung casually over one of the chair's intricately carved arms; one sturdy goat-hide boot bobbed unceasingly as Kíli kept his wordless watch. Every so often, the back of his boot would hit the oak chair with a solid _thwack_, but Glóin was making such a fuss that no one noticed. His left knee kept time with his right boot, although his left foot was planted firmly on the freshly scrubbed granite beneath his sole. Kíli had propped his left elbow up on the corresponding arm-rest; his right arm was slung casually across his torso, his fingers curled loosely around the mug of Dale-crafted ale that he had placed between his legs.

The dark-haired dwarf was still dressed in his court finery, but he'd tossed his heavy woolen robe onto a nearby stool that wasn't being used. His matching blue over-tunic was still held securely around his waist by his broad, brown-leather belt, but Kíli had loosened the ties of his pale gray under-tunic so that his throat and upper chest could feel the cool nip of the deep mountain air. Such was the slightly disheveled look that he normally went with when his day of royal duties was concluded - it was the only part of the day where he felt like he could breath.

Stern Thorin and noble Fíli, Kíli was _not_. And when he started to suspect that any of his uncle's previous company began to forget that, Kíli went out of his way to remind them that he was king only under protest. The only compromise he honored was one he had struck with Balin a year and seven months before, moments before he had stepped out of the musty-smelling antechamber and started his straight-shouldered march down the length of the King's Hall. Before he took the crown of Erebor, Kíli swore on his brother's honor that he would keep any demonstrations of rebellion locked away behind closely guarded doors.

_You can resent your fate all you want, laddie - you wouldn't be your uncle's kin if you didn'a_, Balin had declared firmly, as he stood with his hands full of the weight of the crown he would soon put on Kíli's head. _But, never show your heart nor your thoughts. Y'have another battlefield to win, sire. It'll require an archer's focused gaze an' silent aim._

Kíli had decided that those were, without a doubt, the best words of advice he'd received over the whole matter of his sudden succession to Durin's throne. But, even with Balin's wealth of wisdom, Kíli had managed to make his first year and a half of rule an uninspiring one, to say the least. And, as was the case in the evening's heated discussion, it had been a rather _disastrous_ first year at that.

"...Glóin, you can shout all you want, but the fact still remains that we can'na make any progress whatsoever_ without _a master mason!" Dwalin finally managed to roar over the vociferous argument raging between his older brother and the red-headed dwarf in question.

Every voice around the table went as silent as their king, but there was a collective _huff _of forcefully expelled air. After a few harsh moments of heavy breathing, Bofur threw his hands up in a startlingly uncharacteristic display of pessimism.

"Well, we've got ourselves a right pickle, then!" the usually good-natured engineer nearly knocked his iconic gray _**ushanka**_ clean off of his head, as his hands flew past his ears. "All o' our master smiths are now buried so far down into the deeps of this mountain that we can't even recover their bodies!"

Bofur's heavy gloved hands fell back down on top of the table with the muffled thump of cloth against wood. His eyes flashed from beneath his bushy eyebrows and his winsome (if hairy) face was contorted by a scowl of the likes no one sitting around the table had ever seen before.

It was Bofur's obvious frustration and angrily-flushed cheeks that prompted Kíli to finally sit up and jÓin the debate. He swung his right leg around, to place both feet next to each other on the stone floor. With a casual shrug of his broad shoulders, the young king pushed his elbow off of the arm-rest and straightened his entire posture in the process. He set his half-empty wooden mug loudly down on top of the table in front of him and leaned forward in his seat, until his forearms rested on the cherry wood on either side of his drink.

The entire room went silent; all eyes turned toward their king and Kíli fought the urge to squirm. It was still difficult for him to accept the fact that when he so much as _sneezed_, the whole mountain seemed to notice. For his whole life, he had been able to slip behind his brother's shadow when he didn't want to be noticed (and sometimes, he didn't even have to _want_ to be overshadowed by Fíli's presence, in order for others to forget him), but now the only shadow he could claim was his own. It was unsettling, even after so much time, but he continued obstinately forward in the discussion, despite his brief moment of discomfort.

"Now, more than ever, the facts are to the point - Dwalin is correct. We need a master mason. But, I dare say that Balin, Óin, Ori, and Bofur brought back with them the best that they could find," Kíli fingered the smooth, carved curve of his mug's handle.

He paused, his mind racing rapidly; while the others had been yelling, he had been mulling over the words that Thranduil had spoken to him just before his coronation. His dark eyes turned toward Balin and he squinted against the light of the fire that flickered behind the elder dwarf's silhouette.

"But, we've only reached out to those of the dwarrow who still reside in the West," Kíli paused for a moment more and then slowly added, "What about the Houses in the East? Didn't they answer Thráin's call for help during the War Between the Dwarves and Orcs?"

There was an almost echoing silence to his question and Kíli tried yet again not to fidget or otherwise reveal his sense of self-consciousness. He hated it when his advisers and close companions acted like this - like they didn't know how to answer to him. As it turned out, he had merely shocked them into silence (not that that was much better, he reflected afterwards, since he hadn't really thought he'd made any unreasonable inquiry. Apparently, no one had expected him to have been listening during Balin's lectures about dwarrow history.)

"Well...yes," Balin finally answered, his voice low and betraying no small amount of amazement. "There are four dwarven Houses in the East. Three of them answered your grandfather's call to war - the Stiffbeards of the far North, the Stonefoots of central _**Rhûn**_, and the Blacklocks of the deep South."

"Wouldn't any one of those clans have master masons to spare?" Kíli spread his large hands open wide.

"The Stiffbeards _are_ master masons," it was Ori's turn to surprise everyone with his soft, hesitant response. "The sons of Thulin have long been lauded as masters of stone."

"Ori is correct," Óin interjected, his gray head nodding in agreement. "Not much is known about the Stiffbeards, but they did indeed answer Thráin's call to arms and they contributed an entire battalion to Durin's cause. However, as I recall, they were mostly scouts and engineers."

"Good strategists, Stiffbeards," Balin added softly; his brow was furrowed and his eyes distant as he turned over his mind for further memories. "They were the only House to bring and build siege weapons during the War. When a wall needed scaling or a portcullis broken open, the Stiffbeards were always leading the way. I recall one young dwarven lad - he couldn't have been more than 80 years old or so, just starting his craft. But he could look at a fortification and find its structural weakness in moments, from sight alone."

"They kept to themselves," Óin stroked his short beard thoughtfully, as he met Kíli's gaze across the length of the table. "They were a secretive, silent lot, the Stiffbeards. But, they were invaluable during our war with the Orcs and they left quite an impression on King Thorin, sire."

"They would not come to our aid, however, in taking back this very mountain," Balin lifted his head and looked up at the high stone ceiling above them, as if searching for each word he uttered. "Even their ingenuity could not win us back Khazad-dûm and the whole battalion was wiped out during the Battle of Azanulbizar - the very battle where your Uncle Frerin and your grandfather died," the kindly-faced dwarf's eyes slid down toward Kíli's dark head and the two considered each other for a moment, both thinking of Thorin, before Balin continued. "When their chief learned of the death toll his people had suffered, he rescinded his aid of our folk and we haven't heard a word from House of Thulin these 144 years since."

"Would they be willing to help us again?" Kíli tried not to sound too hopeful, but it crept into his voice nonetheless; he smothered a wince at the sound of his own youthfulness.

He had so much to learn. At least he was among trusted confidants, who would not think any lesser of him for grasping at straws.

"As long as we don't tell them why we're reaching out to them for help after nearly a century and a half of silence," Bofur sighed heavily. "If the loss of a whole battalion made them pull back their aid before, I shan't imagine that they'll be impressed to hear that we've managed to lose 174 masons in the span of ten minutes."

Kíli pushed an aggravated breath through his teeth and scrubbed both of his hands over his face. Very little had seemingly gone right during his first 18 months of rule and the very worst of it all had happened not two weeks earlier.

Smaug had paid absolutely no heed to such petty inconveniences as columns and load-bearing walls. Whole sections of Erebor had collapsed in the hundred-and-more years since Smaug had taken over, mostly from the great wyrm's complete disregard for the integrity of his lair. Things were not so bad deeper down in the mountain, near the mines, but the dwarves had quickly found that several key load-bearing structures had been compromised in Smaug's searches for food and treasure. One area in particular had been given the masons and engineers nothing but constant trouble - it was an important part of the mines from a structural standpoint, as it had supported a considerable portion of the upper halls and levels. Several key columns had been knocked out and alarmingly large chunks of the supporting mountain wall in that area had been gauged out. Given the fact that several tunnels had been carved out by Smaug's spear-like claws and that quite a large number of broken remains had been found, the dwarves concluded that the area had caught Smaug's interest, because of the refugees that had either been trapped there, or had been hiding in the tunnels in the hope of escaping once the dragon had brought his rampage to an end.

The area was dubbed "the eastern interlock", in recognition of its importance as a foundation for what became homes, streets, shops, and crafting stores in the levels up above it. Immediately below the "interlock" were three large smithies that promised a considerable production once they could be reignited and used. The potential of those forges, however, would never be discovered.

Kíli was no mason nor engineer, so he couldn't really say what had happened, but one morning a fortnight before, the entire mountain and most of Dale was awakened by the roar of a thunderous collapse in the deeps. The death toll had reached into the 200s, at least - a mixture of masons, miners, and engineers, who had been at work on their shift that morning and families that had begun to live in the levels up above the interlock. All deaths were deep losses, but Kíli had discovered that it was harder to address the loss of women and children - especially to a hard-pressed kin who valued the future of their race, as it was tenuous in even the best of times because of the scarcity of female dwarrow. The families had moved into the apartments and housing levels just days before, on the blessing of the head master mason, who had vowed before king and kin that the interlock had been stabilized sufficiently to justify the habitation of the levels above it.

Kíli also discovered that it was hard to blame a dead dwarf. Technically, the tragedy of the eastern interlock was on the chief mason's head. But, since that had been caved in as effectively as the eastern section of the mines, the blame fell quite squarely on his own broad shoulders. Just 14 days and already Kíli was becoming uncomfortably aware of his plummeting reputation among the Blue Mountain and Iron Hill dwarves.

To be fair, most of the grumbling was coming from the Iron Hill side of the House, as the memory of watching Kíli grow up among the Blue Mountain dwarves inspired a deeper level of loyalty to the new King Under the Mountain. Kíli was a little wounded by the lack of support from the Iron Hill families, especially since he felt that he had established a rather decent rapport with his kin, Lord Dáin. But, apparently, the rumblings of dissatisfaction were loud enough that Dáin had showed up on the plain between Erebor and Dale two mornings earlier. He had come to give his struggling king council, but that was between them - ostensibly, Dáin had arrived with an Iron Hill retinue in order to "show support and solidarity with the kin of Erebor at this troubling time."

Dáin had explained that things did not look so good for the young king - at least, not in relation to his royal career. There were doubts about his youth - many had wondered if Dáin should have been appointed regent until Kíli had "matured". The young king was called into question over his appearance and he himself had heard the whispers of "no-beard" or "the beardless king" as he walked the halls of his ravaged mountain. Never mind that he had soundly declared that he would not grow out his beard until he had moved past his mourning. He had come under fire for "taking too long" to "set aside his grief" and for "dawdling" when it came to taking a wife. His love for Tauriel wasn't common knowledge (thankfully; Kíli could only imagine what his doubters would make of _that_), but many were claiming that he didn't care for dwarrow lasses (which wasn't strictly untrue, unfortunately).

Of course, from where Kíli was sitting, it certainly seemed like the dwarrow lasses didn't care much for _him_, either. He wasn't an idiot, especially since he assuaged what he could of his innate restlessness by slipping along the halls at quiet times, disguised as a common dwarf going about his business. He'd heard the opinions of the young dwarrow maids who currently called Erebor home: the kindest judgment he had heard about himself so far, was that "the king was homely". He was, apparently, too "tall" and too "thin", in addition to the already mentioned shortcomings of "young" and "beardless". (The latter not being altogether fair, he thought, since he _did _have a beard - just, not much of one. He hadn't let his beard grow out any longer than it had been the day he buried his uncle and brother.) In fact, the general consensus among the Erebor lasses (insofar as Kíli could determine) was that the only positive physical feature he had to offer was his _hair_.

At least the lasses liked that much. But, it certainly wasn't enough to catch the eye of a wife.

The loss of the eastern interlock and the further destruction of the levels above it had only succeeded in cementing his incompetency in the eyes of those who would desire the throne of Erebor for themselves (for, that's what Balin claimed was behind much of the mutterings and rising dissension). Kíli had been in talks, negotiations, and burial ceremonies late into each early morning for the past two weeks. He was well beyond the point where he wanted to throw his hands up in despair and tell Erebor to run its own damn self.

Kíli took a deep breath and tuned back into the conversation at hand. He knew only too well by now where such internal lines of thought would take him and there was no time to indulge in his own self-pity. They _had _to reach a solution by the end of the week, or they would risk losing the cooperation of the Iron Hill dwarrow, despite Dáin's personal efforts to rally support to Kíli's cause.

"...The Stiffbeards might be willing to help. Or they might not. Really, it's quite irrelevant. They live in the Northern Wastes above Rhûn and it would take too long for us to travel there, negotiate with them, and travel back. By the time all that had transpired, we would most likely lose _all _support we have among our kin - even Dáin's, as stout-hearted as he is," Balin spoke with all the understated wisdom and common sense that had made him indispensable to Kíli, and to Thorin before him.

There was deep pause, during which Kíli sighed heavily again and raked weary fingers through his thick hair. It had tangled slightly over the course of the day and his hand caught on a few strands just beside the heavy King's Braid that rested against his right cheek. He had a corresponding braid on the left side and as he jerked his hand through the tangle with a shake of his hand and head, both braids moved in tandem across the strong line of his stubbled jaw. Kíli made a slight face and glanced at total random over at Ori...and then stopped to stare at the look of absolute concentration that was scrunching up the young scribe's face. The king then glanced over his shoulder, in the direction that Ori was squinting, and then back over at the other dwarf.

"Ori?" Bofur, who had also noticed the faraway look on the scribe's face, leaned across the table and waved his hand in front of Ori eyes.

"Y'know...Dale's been lookin' rather put together lately," Ori abruptly focused on Bofur; he then turned sharp eyes toward Kíli, who quirked an eyebrow back at him. "'As anyone else noticed?"

"Well..now that y'mention it..." Glóin's ruddy face lit up with a dawning realization that was shared by everyone else gathered at the table. "The outer wall's been rebuilt since _**'Afiglêb**_, by the looks of it."

A rare ghost of a smile turned up the barest edges of Kíli's lips. He picked up his mug, tipped his head back, and took a long, hearty pull of the nut-ale he'd brought into the Council Room from dinner. He slammed the tankard back down on the table as he swallowed; after a rough swipe of the back of his hand across his mouth, Kíli leaned forward toward his company.

"Perhaps Bard's found a master mason among the men," Óin spoke out loud what everyone else was suddenly hoping.

"We'll take what we can," Kíli snorted.

"A...Man?" Dwalin scowled.

"If my choices are a Man or mutiny, I'll go with a Man," Kíli gave his Captain of the Guard a droll roll of his eyes.

"Or, maybe, the people of Dale are better at bonding together and working cooperatively," Balin gently reminded his fellow dwarves - king included - that they needed to gather their facts first, before jumping to conclusions.

Kíli nodded resolutely in agreement. He slapped a bare hand down on the polished table top and finally leaned back in his oaken chair. His dark eyes tangled conspiratorially with Bofur's and there was the passing suggestion of a smile across his mouth for a second time that night.

"Perhaps I should pay a visit to our friend, Bard the Bowman and see if he's had success where we have not."

* * *

><p><strong>Izgilnurt 'Afgargablâg 1st<strong>

_(Monday May 18th)_

**Dale**

* * *

><p>"...The anchors should go here and here," Kivi stabbed the blueprints unfurled on the makeshift table in front of her with a stubby finger. "This'll give the arch the best foundation to hold the weight of the opening."<p>

A warm late-spring wind ruffled the soft hairs that had escaped the tight braid trailing down the length of her back. She absently reached up and tucked a number of loose strands behind her left ear, as she scowled down at the building plans scattered hodge-podge in front of her. A piece of blunt writing charcoal was tucked behind her right ear and had smudged some of her gold-red hair in that area a smoky black. Her ice-blue eyes never strayed from the rough-hewn boards that had been balanced on top of two barrels of aging beer - what sufficed for a workman's table in lieu of anything better. The bits of parchment, upon which a variety of blueprints had been meticulously drawn, had to be weighted down with small, round stones so they didn't blow away in the warm breeze. Kivi's companions - a mixed assortment of men of various ages - had become used to her quirks after working with her for the last four months and didn't take offense to the fact that the unexpectedly female master mason in their midst had a tendency to talk to her parchment and stones, rather than to those who worked under her instruction. It was a sign of her intense concentration and a grudging sort of respect had been given to her over time, despite her originally off-putting tendencies.

"Seppä just finished making three dozen anchor bolts. I've sent Leiren to fetch them," Kivi's forehand, Artur, piped up in anticipation of her next question.

"And Midge the carpenter told me this mornin' that he's finished carvin' the last of the arch-beams needed fer the passage," another one of the gathered crew piped up and Kivi glanced up with a rare grin of approval.

"Excellent! At this pace, we'll finish the southern inner wall by midsummer."

She opened her mouth to continue speaking, but before she could even take a breath, a crash, an ear-splitting shriek, and a cacophony of alarmed shouts tore the otherwise peaceful early afternoon air.

"You wicked little _beasts_!" the dismally familiar voice of the local weasel, Alfrid, rose shrilly from the direction of the armory.

There were some more squeals, shrieks, and several foreboding crashes that echoed through Dale's lower courtyard. A deep voice roared above the chaos and Kivi straightened her back with a twitch of her eyebrows. She knew that voice and the harsh, foreign words that cut angrily through the unseen chaos. And while the others gathered round did _not _in fact, know what was said, they knew enough to catch two certain names that had become quite infamous about Dale as of late.

"Inkeri! Kalevi!" Kivi's cousin, Jarvi, had a voice that reverberated against the stones; the young mason rather wondered if he could be heard all the way in Erebor's dark halls.

His dire, unspoken warnings were accompanied by several more crashes, the sounds of a scuffle, and then pattering feet. About three minutes later, Jarvi appeared, frog-marching a rather bemused Bain, son of Bard, in front of him.

"Well, here's this one," Jarvi started talking long before he had stepped into socially-accepted hearing range; everyone heard him anyway, his impossibly deep voice heavy with the unspoken authority of the last remaining male relative to the unknown Stiffbeard chieftain in their midst.

Jarvi put one thick-fingered paw in the back of Bain's back and shoved him (not roughly, though) toward the group of men (and one female dwarf) who were all trying not to laugh at the way the tall youth was being manhandled by a stout half-dwarf that came up only to the young man's chest.

"Seems young Master Bain let Keri 'n Kal have a bow and a quiver of arrows 'tween them," Jarvi let go of Bain (who looked appropriately ashamed) and hooked his thumbs in the colorful cloth belt tied around his thick waist. "They've managed to shoot Alfrid," the full, bright-red mustache framing Jarvi's mouth twitched as he met Kivi's eyes; she lifted _both _eyebrows now and the two fought hard not to grin at each other like idiots.

"Oh?" Kivi cleared her throat and squinted her eyes in a gesture that she hoped was intimidating (and not an obvious effort keep from snickering like a dwarfling).

"Aye," Jarvi nodded sagely, his mustache trembling the whole while. "In the knee."

"Well," Kivi had a coughing fit in earnest, as she accidentally tried to laugh and breathe through her mouth at the same time.

After she had gathered her composure, she glanced up at the human boy who practically towered over her.

_He does have his father's height,_ Kivi thought absently.

"Master Bain," the exiled _äiti _of the Frost Dwarves drew her shoulders back and put her hands squarely on her softly rounded hips.

"Yes, _**Mestari**_," Bain mumbled, appropriately ashamed of himself; he clearly didn't want to, but he met Kivi's stern gaze bravely. ["_Master_"]

"I frankly don't know whether to punish you and my young charges," her mouth wiggled dangerously along the corners. "Or to _reward _the three of you."

The light in Bain's eyes turned hopeful and he lifted his head just a wee bit in eager anticipation of mercy. Kivi didn't _dare_ look at Jarvi and she pressed her full lips into the firmest scowl she could manage.

"So, I'll let you _father _decide."

Bain's shoulders dropped about two whole inches and Kivi scrubbed a hand over her mouth as she tried not to smile. She finally risked a glance toward Jarvi, who was thankfully straight-faced, although his pale eyes twinkled with his usual good humor.

"Go find the other two mischief-makers, Cousin," Kivi casually beckoned at Bain as she spoke, motioning for him to bend over to her level. "I'll go take this one," she grabbed the youth's ear in a firm grip between thumb and forefinger. "To the Bowman."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, the Bowman greeted a "disguised" King Under the Mountain with a back-thumping hug and a large tankard of Dale's most excellent nut-ale.<p>

"Kíli!" Bard held the dwarf out at arm's length and grinned widely, his teeth flashing in the sunlight that poured generously through the nearby window. "It's been a while, old friend!"

"Since _**Khebabnurtamrâg**_," Kíli didn't smile, but his eyes were warm and one corner of his mouth tugged softly upward as he met the Man's gaze. "It's been busy under the mountain." ["_Forge Day Fest_"]

"So I've heard," Bard nodded, suddenly solemn as he let go of Kíli's muscular shoulders. "My deepest condolences to the families who have suffered from the cave-in a fortnight ago."

"Thank you," Kíli said the only thing he could really think of _to _say; he swallowed heavily and slapped Bard a few times on the shoulder, before collapsing into the nearest wooden-slat chair.

"Rough times, then?" Bard asked sympathetically after a few moments of appropriate silence.

The soon-to-crowned king of Dale sat down on a stool across from Kíli; Bofur, who was the dwarven king's usual partner-in-crime when he decided to sneak about without a crown upon his head, settled down on a few sacks of ground flour in the corner. Bard's Hall - the long-house style building that temporarily housed the Bowman and his family - was full of light and fresh air. All the windows and doors were open and only a gently smoldering fire was lit in the far end of the narrow home, over which quietly simmered a pot of what smelled like rabbit stew. It was a comfortable, well-worn place and Kíli felt his shoulders (which were always tense with the weight of Erebor upon them) slowly begin to relax. He glanced over at the Man he had come to call "friend" (and even, perhaps, "confidant") in the last year and a half and sighed heavily.

"Always, it seems," Kíli reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose in an expression of mixed exhaustion and frustration. "Dwarves are an unforgiving and contentious folk."

Bard couldn't help a sharp bark of laughter at that. He chuckled heartily into his ale for several moments, before glancing sideways at Kíli with a grin.

"Welcome to the experience of the rest of Middle Earth," the Bowman's teeth shone bright again against the dark outline of his mustache. "Although, my friend, you're not so easy to deal with yourself," the Man's dark eyes twinkled merrily over the rim of his tankard. "For starters, you don't even possess the decency to die when pierced through with orc steel or Morgul poison."

Kíli snorted; he enjoyed Bard's dry humor and took the Bowman's words with an easy shrug of his broad shoulders. Enough time had passed, too, so that he didn't feel his heart ache quite so terribly at the mention of his first close brush with death, which he always associated with the memory of Tauriel standing above him, lit in starlight. His heart still clenched tightly, but with the frequency with which he had thought of the beautiful elf-maid in the last 18 months, Kíli was starting to find that the memory of her no longer brought tears to his eyes. In fact, he was starting to forget the details of her face - the realization left him feeling pensive and achingly bereft. The two sat in silence again; the only sound was Bofur's stirrings in the corner, as he quietly refilled his pipe and sparked a flint against the tightly packed leaves in the rough-carved bowl cupped within his weathered palm.

"So, what brings you to my hall this fine day?" Bard finally nudged the conversation along; he eyed the dwarf he had learned to think of somewhat fondly as a young brother, or a cousin, perhaps. "Not that I don't welcome your company, but you usually only come for festivals these days."

"Aye, I suppose I do," Kíli glanced at Bard out of the corner of his eye and drummed up a weak smile of apology. "Don't come much during the day, either, I'm afraid. Wouldn't do for a dwarven king to be seen seeking advice from a Man."

The young dwarf couldn't keep the creep of bitterness in his voice. He resented the fact that his every move was watched - often by eyes that weren't altogether friendly. Usually, if he was seeking council, he came to speak to Bard once the darkness had set - which was easy to do in the winter, when the sun set behind the Lonely Mountain well before supper. It was harder to visit at any reasonable hour during the summer, at least, in an unofficial capacity.

Kíli had left his crown with Balin and had traveled through one of the service tunnels at the base of the Mountain with Bofur, shortly after his afternoon repast. The young king had his old blue tunic on - the one he had worn while part of Thorin's proud Company. The hood was pulled up over his face, his hair braided down his back, so that it could be hidden beneath his clothes. He wore a nondescript over-tunic that was embroidered with a demure gray thread in an angular, knot-work pattern not associated with any that he usually wore. There were no rings on his fingers, no royal seal or indication of his station. His throat and hands were bare and Kíli reveled in the freedom his borrowed clothes bought him. No one - not Man, not dwarf - had given him a second look as he rode Nori's shaggy-haired pony into Dale with a similarly dressed Bofur at his side.

But, this sort of day-time visit in such a disguise carried with it its element of risk and if the situation wasn't so dire, Balin wouldn't have considered it. (Which simply meant that Kíli probably would have still done it, but without Balin or Dwalin's approval and he would probably have had a harder time convincing Bofur to accompany him.) But, Kíli had eyed Dale's repaired outer walls as he had approached and what Ori had said was true - the city's outermost defenses had been seamlessly repaired. The need for information was of the utmost important to Kíli's continued control of the crown, so he had ridden straight to Bard's Hall without notice or hesitation.

"I take it there is advice I can offer you today?" Bard graciously overlooked Kíli's embittered reference to the stubborn prejudice of his many kin.

"Mmm," Kíli nodded slowly; he didn't look at Bard as he spoke, but instead settled his gaze toward the nearest window, out of which he could see the crenelation of a nearby guard tower. "Your outer walls are looking well repaired, Master Bard. We of Erebor have been wondering about the secret to your sudden success."

"Ah…" it was more of an exhalation of breath than a word, but Kíli gave Bard a suspicious glance; the Man sounded as if he had expected such a question from the dwarven king.

It was now Bard's turn to not look Kíli in the eye; his gaze fell down into the depths of his tankard and the Bowman cleared his throat before continuing, as if suddenly nervous. Kíli could feel his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline in surprise - Bard was never anything but forthright. Seeing such hesitation and...bemusement?...from him was something quite novel.

"Well, I must confess that the Men of Dale were presented with an unexpected bit of luck in the new year -"

Bard opened his mouth to continue, but a voice cut him off so loudly that Bofur jumped and dropped his pipe with a muffled oath and an undignified clatter.

"Master Bard!" the voice – a _feminine _voice, Kíli noted with mild surprise - sailed sharply through the open door as an accompanying shadow appeared and lengthened between the frame.

Bard's angular face broke out into a wide smile, which he turned toward Kíli. The two considered each other for a moment, before Bard shrugged and jerked a thumb toward the door and the stout figure who abruptly appeared, flanked by two other forms of drastically different heights.

"That would be our secret of sudden success," Bard's smile turned a bit sheepish and Kíli narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at his friend. "Our master mason, sir - Kivi Journeyman."

* * *

><p><strong>References<strong>

_**Ushanka**_ - Quite literally, the name of the style of hat that Bofur wears. It's a Russian word, but sounded sufficiently "dwarvish" enough that I didn't bother trying to change it.

_**Rhûn**_ - The gigantic, almost-continent-sized country to the east of the countries/places of Middle Earth (Gondor, Rohan, the Shire, etc). Tolkien didn't really delve much into the history or culture of Rhûn, but from what I've gathered, it's huge and has an Asian/Middle-Eastern/Russian feel to it, depending on which part of the country one is in. It reaches from sub-arctic-like geography in the far north (where the Stiffbeards live, incidentally) to the desert in the far south (where the Blacklocks live). I imagine the area that the Stonefoots live as steppes or large plains.

_**'Afiglêb**_ – I have plotted the entire dwarrow calendar on a blank calendar template (which is a great, detailed pain, by the way). What I've discovered is that the same day each year is not necessarily in the same month... The dwarrow calendar is based on a lunar calendar, so the dates/months have a tendency to shift around. For the purposes of the story, however, 'Afiglêb would be December 21st – January 18th. The dwarrow New Year falls in October, so the months count up from there. 'Afiglêb is also known as the "Third Month".

_**Khebabnurtamrâg**_ - "Forge Day Fest". According to Dwarrow Scholar, this feast is sacred to dwarrow smiths. It also signals the end of winter, at sunset. For the purpose of this story, Khebabnurtamrâg falls on February 6th, **or** the 19th day of the Fourth Month.


	3. Off On the Wrong Foot

"_Fiery mountain beneath the moon;_

_The words unspoken, we'll be there soon."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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**Izgilnurt 'Afgargablâg 1st**

_(Monday May 18__th__)_

_**Dale**_

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Kíli would long remember his first impression of Kivi Journeyman. He stood up as Bard's "unexpected bit of luck" stepped further into the long-hall, dragging along her two companions by their ears. He couldn't see much of anything except her silhouette at first, lit as she was from behind by the high afternoon sun. There was a halo around her head, though, that puzzled him for the few moments that it took for her to step into the darker room and to come into better focus. He stood as she stomped resolutely toward the table in front of the two men and when she stopped just an arm length or two away from them, Kíli realized that what he had mistaken for a halo was the light of the sun on her hair.

Kivi had a veritable _mane _of long tresses the color of freshly polished copper, a brilliant mixture of gold and rose that gleamed even in the dimmer light cast through the window. Her hair was braided sensibly down the length of her back and pulled away from her face, but even that practicality couldn't hide the fact that Mahal had blessed her with a beautiful, wild array of locks.

Her eyes were tilted slightly downward in the corner, giving them a fetching almond shape. Her eyes themselves were a brilliant blue, the color of aquamarines, Kíli fancied. They considered each other for a moment - Kíli's gaze appraising, her's openly curious, if not a bit mischievous. Eyes, Kíli had heard Gandalf say once, were mirrors of the soul; if that were so, then he could already tell that this dwarrow-maid possessed a keen intellect and a clear conscience. She met the King's gaze head-on, never looking away, never dipping her head demurely, never fluttering her eyelashes at him. She looked at him as an equal; Kíli enjoyed the precious few moments he would have of that. Surely, she would look at him differently - like all the other dwarrow-maids - when she found out who he was.

Her piercing eyes did finally flicker over toward Bard and Kíli took the opportunity to consider the features of her face. It was oval-shaped, broad along the brow in the style of dwarves, but her jawline brought her face smoothly to a proportionate, if smaller-than-average chin. Kivi had almost a button-like nose, straight and unbroken, and much smaller in size than most noses Kíli had eyed on the dwarrow-maids living now under the mountain. He then noticed (with a sudden, unintended rise of an eyebrow) that Kivi did not have a beard, or facial hair of any sort, except for a pair of gently arched eyebrows that were a shade darker than her hair.

All-in-all, he found her a rather fetching sight, and he was a bit startled by that internal realization. There was no external attempt, however, to enhance or to draw notice to Kivi's femininity. She could almost be mistaken for a young man, except that there was no way anyone could look at her small, full-lipped mouth and long lashes, and mistake her for being male. Her dress and demeanor, though, were decidedly ambiguous.

She wore a tunic of sapphire blue, that was significantly shorter than any worn by Durin's kin. The tunic stopped just above her hips and was cinched at the waist by a handsome, studded leather belt, upon which hung the pouches and loops of a workman's tools. The tunic's collar was stiff and high; it brushed the bottom of her jaw along the sides and looked as if it were meant to be clasped shut in the front. Kivi wore it open, though, revealing pale, freckled skin along the curve of her neck and the top of her sternum. The tunic had long sleeves that Kivi had rolled up to just above her elbows, revealing surprisingly muscled forearms and a much lighter dusting of hair along the top of her skin than was normal for most dwarrow. The tunic collar and bottom hem were embroidered with a bright red thread and a few faint weavings of gold.

It was simple garb, accompanied by sturdy brown trews and a pair of chunky-toed, black leather boots that had very clearly seen their fair share of hard work. Yet, despite its simplicity, Kivi's attire looked almost extravagant to Kíli, for all its bright colors and brilliant hues - the dwarrow of Durin's House kept to understated, deep, earthy colors. Next to him and Bofur, Kivi was as cheerfully attired as the riotously blooming landscape outside.

As Kíli's eyes traveled up from Kivi's blocky boots, he noticed with a slight frown that the dwarrow-maid had no visible bosom to speak of; as this was usually his favorite part of a woman to consider, Kíli was a bit perplexed. There was not even the gentlest of swells beneath her azure tunic and for a second, Kíli suddenly wondered if he _had _mistaken her for a "him".

He glanced up, out of sheer reflex, to Kivi's face and found her grinning at him like a fool. She opened her mouth as if to say something to him, but a new voice beat her to it.

"_**Hei, veli**_!" the deepest voice Kíli had ever heard (deeper even than his own, or Dwalin's) drew his eyes swiftly from Kivi to the space behind her. ["_Hello, brother_!"]

A burly human man stood behind her, the struggling legs of what appeared to be a dwarfling slung over his shoulder threatened to smack him in the forehead. The Man seemed singularly unconcerned by the matter; his eyes, which were the same crystal-clear blue as Kivi's, were crinkled up in the corners in a smile of genuine pleasure.

"_**Tervetuloalänteen**_!" more foreign words tumbled out of the man's broad mouth, which was framed by an impossibly bright red mustache that would have made Glóin green with envy. "_**Mikä perhe soittaa sinulle sukua**_?" ["_Welcome to the West!" / "Which family calls you kin?_"]

Kíli shook his head dully, his brow furrowed deeply in confusion. He had never heard such a language before in his life, but based on the Man's immediate friendliness, he had apparently mistaken Kíli as someone he might actually know. The young king opened his mouth to respond, but then promptly shut it, as he squinted, perplexed, at the newcomer. He had no idea how to respond.

"Jarvi, he's not of the North," a softer voice answered in Kíli's stead and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was Kivi speaking, finally, in her normal tones.

She had glanced over her shoulder at the Man who was only a mere head taller than her. She shook her head, as confusion settled across her companion's face.

"No?" he shot Kíli a puzzled look and no one could miss the way the Man's eyes dropped over the length of the king's body and then back up at his face.

"No, he's one Durin's sons. Look at how he dresses," Kivi's eyes flickered over to Kíli and he watched with no small amount of discomfort as her eyes traveled the same path as the Man's.

"Ah, I suppose so. Pity," Jarvi sounded almost wistful and Kíli narrowed his eyes at him; the Man noticed and grinned haphazardly at the dwarven king. "You'll forgive my mistake. You have the look of the North about you. You have the beard of an unmarried man and you're much taller than most of Durin's folk I've seen."

Before Kíli could reply, Kivi rolled her broad shoulders and glanced up at Jarvi out of the corner of her eye.

"I thought so at first, too. For a moment, I had hope. But alas," she looked back toward Kivi and her expression had dimmed. "Looks can be deceiving, eh, Jarvi?"

"Eh," Jarvi grunted and finally seemed content to return to the matter at hand, as he reached up to grab his still-squirming prisoner.

Kivi had turned her attention back toward Bard, but Kíli wasn't having any of it.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, not sure whether to be confused or offended by their odd conversation. "That looks can be deceiving?"

Kivi looked at him again; if she was ruffled by his tone, she didn't show it. In fact, she looked a mite apologetic and Kíli found that some of the aggressive stiffness of his shoulders eased in the face of her apparent empathy.

"Please forgive me, Durin's Son," she inclined her head kindly toward him, her words genuine. "As we've said, my cousin and I thought that you were a dwarf of the North. You bear a striking resemblance, physically, to the younger men of our homeland."

Kíli blinked and only barely managed to keep himself from sputtering (and only because he could hear Balin in the back of his head reminding him quite primly that "_Kings do not lose their composure in the face of the unexpected_").

"You're…" his voice trailed off as something Kivi had said clicked - he glanced from her, to the Man, Jarvi, back to her. "Wait...your _cousin_?"

Jarvi answered.

"I think before we engage ourselves in a discussion about our relation, we should probably explain to Master Bard why you have his eldest child's ear in a death grip, _**Serkku**_." ["Cousin."]

Bard chuckled at this. He had struck quite a firm friendship with Kivi in the months since the new year - some of this was because she was a dwarf of unquestionable honor and was true to her word. She had shown up in Dale claiming that she was a master mason and her work proved the great worth of her word. They had also become friends in response to the almost-instant rapport between Kivi's dwarfling charges and Bard's three children. All five of them were, at any given time, thick as thieves. The dwarflings - Keri and Kal - were exceedingly hard to dislike and Bard thought the same of Kivi. The two adults had bonded over the inevitable consequences of their childrens' shenanigans and this was not the first time that Kivi had marched into Bard's Hall with one of the Bowmen's children in tow.

He had merely raised his eyebrows in resigned curiosity, when he had recognized Bain bent over at Kivi's side, his ear firmly captured between her nimble-fingers. The conversation had naturally swerved toward Kíli, since he was the stranger in the room, and Bard had patiently waited for the focus to shift back toward Kivi's recalcitrant captives. He was still quite thankful, though, when Jarvi brought the conversation around - the Bowman was most interested in hearing what his only son had managed to do _this _time around.

"Ah, right," Kivi finally tore her gaze away from Kíli and turned her head to consider young Bain, whose face was on the same level as hers.

He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye and grimaced. Clearly uncomfortable, Bain had nevertheless submitted to Kivi's motherly instincts and while being forced to march to his fate bent over, he had endured it with a stoicism worthy of due respect. Kivi nodded, as if to herself, and let go of his ear.

"Master Bain apparently didn't consider the consequences of letting my niece and nephew have a bow and quiver between them," Kivi now turned her head at her other captive, who was considerably less resigned as Bain.

Kíli eyed the dwarfling with interest - by all appearances, it was a boy, with wildly tousled hair the color of cream. The dwarfling was dressed in a green tunic the same shade as Kivi's jewel-toned blue. The tunic was of the same style as the master mason's - belted around the waist and flared out at the bottom just beneath said belt, high along the hips. His tunic, however, was short-sleeved and edged in a mixture of white and orange embroidery. It was also a little worn in places and patched; an altered hand-me-down, which was a prudent decision, given the dirt smudged across the young fellow's chest, arms, hands, knees, and nose.

The dwarfling (who didn't have to bend over to be held in Kivi's iron grasp) glared defiantly at the room at large. His bright eyes - the color of jade - settled on Kíli and flared wide in recognition. The King stifled a sigh; he had hoped to escape the pending introduction to Kivi without having to reveal his true identity. But, that was clearly not going to happen, if the little dwarfling had any chance whatsoever to share his revelation.

"Aren't you in charge of the armory today?" Bard brought Kíli back to the present and he looked quickly away from Kivi's nephew to follow the course of the conversation.

Bard had his arms folded over his chest and was eyeing Bain sternly from down the long length of his nose. Bain shifted uncertainly on his feet and admitted quietly -

"Yes, sir."

"And you just _gave_ two under-aged dwarves a bow and arrow?"

Bain's head bowed down toward the swept wooden floor beneath him, his expression duly apologetic.

"Yes, sir."

"Which one of you barbarians asked Master Bain for a bow?" Kivi interjected with a fierce look from her nephew at her side, to the other dwarfling now fidgeting next to Jarvi.

There was a long pause, before Jarvi's young charge piped up.

"It was me, _**Täti**_," the little trouble-maker looked up from the floor and Kíli was shocked to see that the second dwarfling looked _exactly _like the first. ["_Aunt/Auntie_"]

_Twins!_ he realized with a jolt; twins were exceedingly rare among the dwarrow.

To the best of his knowledge, a multiple birth hadn't occurred in Durin's line for over 200 years. It was hard enough for a dwarrow mother to give birth to _one _dwarfling, never mind _two_. At once. He was also a little shocked to observe that both dwarflings were dressed exactly alike (the only difference being that the second young one wore a tunic of deep amethyst; the colors in the embroidery were the same between the two, however).

_She said 'niece' and 'nephew'..._ Kíli narrowed his eyes as he looked from one child to the other.

While it was true that dwarven men and women looked quite a lot alike (and especially so as children, before the beards started to grow), the completely asexual garb between the two dwarflings was puzzling, to say the least. On rare occasions, Kíli had seen adult dwarrow-dams wearing trousers, particularly in the mines or at the forge. But, dwarrow daughters were so rare that Kíli had never known a dwarrow-dam to _not _dress her girl in skirts, as a way to proudly differentiate her rare daughter from all the boys that were sure to be tumbling about.

"No, I think not," Kivi finally broke the contemplative silence that had fallen on the room.

She looked sharply over at the dwarfling at her side and frowned disapprovingly.

"It was Keri, wasn't it?" she arched an eyebrow at said young dwarf in question.

Keri had the decency to finally bow his head and shuffle his feet nervously across the floor. He scowled at his bare feet (yet another surprise for Kíli) for several long minutes before finally muttering a petulant:

"_**Kyllä, rouva**_."

"In Westron, Keri," Kivi prompted patiently; the dwarfling huffed impatiently, but obeyed.

"Yes, ma'am."

"'Yes, ma'am' _what_?"

"I was the one to ask Bain for a bow," Keri looked as he wanted to throw a tantrum; his face flushed bright red and he was clearly staring at the floor, not as an act of submission, but as an act of refusal to look his aunt in the eye.

Kíli felt the corners of his mouth twitch; he was strongly reminded of himself at that age, as he was a far more dedicated rapscallion than Fíli ever was. The thought of his older brother, however, made Kíli's heart feel as if were breaking into yet another jagged piece and his desire to smile faded.

"Bain, why would you do such a thing?" Bard interjected with an aggravated pinch of his nose.

"I told them to just shoot arrows into the old hay bale in the corner of the training ground. I didn't know Alfrid was there," Bain risked a furtive glance at his father and winced.

"Alfrid?" Bard dropped his hand from his nose and started, nonplussed, at his son, then at Kivi. "What does _Alfrid _have to do with anything?"

"'Fraid one of our little dwarflings shot the ole' bastard," Jarvi answered cheerfully; he shook the shoulder of the boy (girl?) next to him.

"Where?" Bard asked faintly.

"In the knee," the red-headed Man all but chirped; Bard sighed heavily and hid his face behind one large hand.

Kíli chewed the inside of his cheek with a particular vigor, in order to keep from laughing. There was an accompanying snort-fit from the corner where Bofur had been sitting quietly out of the way; Kíli didn't dare look at his companion's face, or else he'd start laughing out loud. He'd had the misfortune of meeting Alfrid at the Midwinter's Festival, a few months before. The King's interaction with the local coward was brief, but it was long enough for Kíli to think that Alfrid quite _deserved _an arrow to the knee.

"Which one of you shot him, anyway?" Kivi demanded a bit roughly; Kíli glanced at her and felt his lips twitch again when he saw that she was desperately trying not to giggle.

There was a long, guilty pause. Finally, Keri squirmed and offered up a surprisingly meek:

"Me."

Kivi rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, as if beseeching Mahal.

"Of course it was you, Keri," her tone was one of completely contrived disappointment (not that young Keri would understand that); the dwarfling's shoulders dropped at the sound of her aunt's disapproval.

"Kal," Bard abruptly focused his attention at the mostly-silent dwarfling held tight against Jarvi's side.

"Yes, sir?" Kal's eyes went wide and round.

"What was your part in all of this?"

"Uh..." Kal looked down and kicked an imaginary speck of dust on the floor. "Um...well...uh...I kind of dared..." here he swallowed hard and stoutly refused to look at anything but the very tips of his dirty toes. "I...uh...dared Keri."

"_**Motsognir **_preserve us," Kivi rolled her eyes toward the heavens; Bard coughed, as if to cover a laugh.

"What'd you say to your sister, Kal?" Jarvi demanded in his distinctive rumble.

"He told me that I couldn't never shoot as good as _him_!" Keri jumped in before her brother could answer; she pointed right at Kíli and the young King could feel the tips of his ears turn red.

Thank Mahal they were hidden by his abundance of dark brown hair. He met the dwarfling's gaze; her chin was proudly raised and something like tears glimmered in the corners of her pale eyes. Clearly, she had been rather deeply affected by Kal's claims - although, Kíli couldn't quite figure out how she knew about his archery to be compared to him. He was also still trying to piece together the abrupt revelation that Keri was a _girl_.

_She looks nothing like a dwarrow-maid_, his head was spinning wildly as he eyed Kal, and then Keri, closely. _She looks exactly like her brother!_

Kivi's voice - suddenly soft and wary - drew Kíli's eyes away from the dwarflings. The two stared at each other and the suspicion on the master mason's face was rather alarming.

"Who's 'him', Keri?" the look in Kivi's eyes, though, told Kíli that she already knew what the answer was.

He decided to take the situation in hand; the broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward and inclined his head at Kivi in courtesy.

"King Kíli Thorinkin," one of his long bangs fell into his face and he shook his head slightly to coax it back to the side by his left ear. "It seems young Keri has sharp eyes," he glanced at Kivi's disapproving face (which rather confused him), to the dwarfling's wide eyes. "An indispensable quality in an archer."

The dwarfling's face lit up like a rare jewel in torchlight. Kivi, however, seemed to determined to disregard her niece's excitement and Kíli's existence. Now scowling, she turned stiffly toward Bard and asked what his verdict was for the children's actions.

If Bain was startled by the abrupt change in conversation, he didn't show it. He reached up and stroked his mustache thoughtfully for a moment, before pronouncing his judgment.

"Bain," he addressed his own son first. "Since you seem to think that weapons are toys, to be handed to children without supervision, I'm going to put you in charge of the youth combat training. I want you down on the training yard every day - sunrise to sunset. I do not necessarily discourage your intent to encourage Keri's interest," his eyes flickered toward the younger child and for just a second, Bard's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. "And you were right to not leave your post in the armory. But, you should have said 'no', or told them to find an older child or an adult to oversee their activities. I would have gladly helped Keri, had one of you thought to ask - I expect you to do the same from now on."

"Yes, sir," Bain lifted his head and met his father's dark eyes with a meek nod of acceptance.

Bard nodded back and added -

"Go back and finish your duties in the armory today. I expect you on the training yard tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir," Bain nodded one more time and then beat a hasty retreat out of the long-house's door.

That left Keri and Kal, who both stared at Bard with no small mixture of trepidation.

"Keri," the little dwarf quivered a bit as she was sternly addressed. "You will help Katrikki tend to Alfrid until he is healed. I admire your fighting spirit, as I admire it in your aunt," Bard softened his words with a slight smile at Kivi. "But, you need to learn that any weapon - even a bow and arrow - can cause harm, most especially if used thoughtlessly."

Keri looked less than thrilled at her punishment; she even looked, for a minute, like she was going to complain about having to help Alfrid. But, then she glanced up at her aunt, whose expression all but dared the dwarfling to protest, and the young girl lowered her head in defeat.

"Yes, Master Bard."

"Go now," Kivi nudged her gently toward the door. "Katrikki is more than likely already seeing to him at the _**chirurgeon**_'s station."

Keri hung her head and turned to go, but not before sliding a shy glance Kíli's way. The King noticed and he forced a slight smile to his face and accompanied it by a playful wink. Keri brightened up considerably and scurried out of the Hall to obediently do as she was told.

Last, but not least, was Kal. Bard sighed heavily and shook his head slowly at the last remaining dwarfling.

"Young Master Kal...you should not tell your sister what she can and cannot do -"

"That's _my _job," Kivi interjected firmly, with a thunderous glare down on her nephew's wheat-colored hair.

"So, I will leave your judgment in the hands of your aunt," Bard concluded smoothly, as if he had expected Kivi's interruption.

The Bowman crossed his arms back over his chest and calmly glanced over at Kivi.

"What you said to Keri was deeply disrespectful," Kivi scolded her nephew sharply. "I have raised you better than that. You will help Keri with Alfrid when Katrikki cannot be present," the master mason held her hand up sharply to cut off her nephew's abrupt attempt at protestation. "And you will spend any other time helping Bain train. If Katrikki allows Keri to go practice with a bow while Alfrid is otherwise occupied, then _you _will help your sister."

Kal opened his mouth again and was promptly shut down by Jarvi's heavy hand on his thin shoulder.

"Do not argue," Jarvi shook his ruddy head in warning. "This is a fair judgment, Kal. Accept it gracefully."

The dwarfling sighed deeply, but then stomped out of the Hall to go follow his sister toward the chirurgeon's station. That left just the adults remaining, to make of each other what they would.

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The silence wasn't long, but it was profoundly uncomfortable. Something lingered in the air - an unspoken curiosity, an unspoken animosity. Then there was Bard, the neutral balance, who settled back on his stool and waited patiently for someone to break the silence.

Kivi tried not to look in the king's direction, but it was hard not to; he was not at all what she had expected. He did indeed have the look of the Northern Khazâd, with a taller-than-was-average-for-a-dwarf height, a more agile build, something of a definable waist above his wider hips, and a half-grown beard. He had kind eyes, too, though darkened by what looked to be a soul-deep weariness that bruised the skin beneath his lashes. He was young, too, his face a bit weathered from exposure to the elements, but still quite unmarred by age.

The Stiffbeard chief had expected an older dwarf - one with the characteristic excess of facial hair for which the Longbeards were well renowned for. She wasn't precisely expecting an _elder_, with snow-white locks and wrinkled skin, but she also wasn't expecting a tired-eyed youth who could not possibly be any older than she was herself. This was not at all the ill-tempered, gold-obsessed, xenophobic, dour-souled Longbeard that was practically a stereotype among her own people's perceptions.

No, the King Under the Mountain was surprisingly easy on the eyes and if his eyes told the truth about what lay within him, he was a thoughtful, observant soul. His expression, while carefully guarded, was far more open than Kivi would have assumed, which probably had something to do with the fact that most of his face was not hidden by facial hair. Her eyes lingered on the thick, well-groomed hair that framed his face and fell over his shoulders; it was the rich burnt umber of a _**Losrandir**_'s summer coat and matched his soulful eyes. Kivi felt her cheeks flush when she realized that he was meeting her inquisitive gaze straight-on. The two eyed each other silently for several long moments and Kivi finally huffed under her breath and turned sharply on her heel, as if to leave.

"Oi!" Bofur suddenly made an accounting of himself; Kivi tried to hide her surprise, as she had not noticed him sitting so quietly in the corner of the room.

When Kivi had turned, she'd provided Bofur with his first full look at her face. For a moment, engineer and mason seemed both frozen in their respective spots. But then, Bofur swung his legs off of the bags of grain that he'd been using as a lounge and stood up.

"I've gotta bone to pick with you!" he waved a half-gloved finger in Kivi's startled direction. "_You're_ the master mason of Dol Amroth!"

Kivi blinked, then frowned, as she tried to make out the engineer's features from within the shadows that gathered around the makeshift pantry to the left of the fireplace. Bofur stepped forward into the light of two adjacent windows and Kivi's eyes flew open in surprise. She also felt a deep twinge of embarrassment, but she carefully schooled her features to keep her more personal emotions hidden.

"And _you're _the King's Messenger who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," she blurted back, having decided that maybe it was best if she engaged the fiery-eyed Longbeard head-on.

She had a strong premonition about where the conversation was going to go and Kivi would be damned if she didn't at least try to take _some _control over it in the beginning.

"You would refuse the request of your _kin_...but you'll help a _Man _rebuild his city?" Bofur's face was slowly turning a fierce red beneath his distinctly styled mustache and trimmed goatee.

"Well, thank you, Bofur," Bard answered before Kivi could, his tone dry. "I only killed Smaug. No big thing."

"Ach, I mean no disrespect, Master Bard," the dwarf had the decency to grimace at his guffaw and glance apologetically over at the future King of Dale. "But, Ori an' I made a _special effort _to travel _out of our way_, when we talked to the Men of Minas Tirith and 'eard them praise the work of the 'wanderin' dwarf mason' who had helped build many impressive expansions to their city," Bofur paused and turned back to Kivi with the grimmest scowl that she had ever seen on any man of any race she knew. "We came to Dol Amroth _specifically _to talk to you," the fingerless-gloved hand was wagging furiously at her again. "An' you wouldn't even give us the time o' day! Ya' sent an _Elf _to come talk to us!"

"And a master smith," Kivi sniffed loftily, as if bringing Seppä into the conversation would somehow make it better.

"Oh, yes. The _smith_," Bofur all but growled, as he planted his feet wide apart and crossed his arms angrily across his chest. "Who beseeched you on our behalf and _you still refused_ to consider the King's offer!"

He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. Kivi could think of nothing in her defense and Jarvi was remaining unhelpfully silent behind her. Bard looked bemused at the situation and she didn't _dare _look at King Kíli - she could practically _feel _his dark eyes boring into her as he studied her profile.

"So, _yes_, I've gotta' bone ter pick with ya'!" Bofur's accent thickened considerably as his voice rose. "Ya' send us away without any common decency, or hope to give to your own kin, and now you're rebuilding Dale thirteen months later! Ya're in the very shadow o' Erebor an' _this _is how ya' meet our King?"

To discredit or belittle Bofur's rather justified frustration would have been dishonorable. It was Kivi's turn to take a deep breath, as she decided to fight blunt honest truth with blunt honest truth.

"You Longbeards may be my kin, but I know _nothing _of you, nor you of me," Kivi spread her own feet wide and propped her fists definitely on her hips, as she squared off against Bofur. "I chose not to entertain your presence in Dol Amroth, because I had no interest to hear the orders of a king, thinly disguised as a request, that could have carried more obligation than I was willing to bear," she lifted her chin stubbornly, as her words gathered steam. "But, in the end, my companions convinced me that perhaps I could position myself so that I could observe you Longbeards and learn about your ways and your king, without having to first obligate myself to your terms and conditions. That is what I chose to do - however, as you can see, I am the guardian of my brother's son and daughter. I have mouths to feed, bodies to cloth, a roof to keep. I came to Dale at the new year and had to make a living while I decided whether or not to approach your king with the honor of my word. So, I accepted Master Bard's request to rebuild Dale," Kivi stared hard at Bofur, as if daring him to object to her methods and means. "My intentions have remained practical and honorable all along. Surely, your King," her eyes, flashing with reproof and challenge, turned to Kíli. "Would not begrudge a guardian providing for her charges?"

"I _would _begrudge your unwarranted suspicion of us," Kíli countered quickly; he pulled his shoulders back proudly as he turned the conversation back on Kivi.

"'Unwarranted'?" Kivi's voice rose sharply and she spun away from Bofur, to stalk angrily toward Kíli, her boots thudding ominously on the floorboards. "You know _nothing _about me, Your _Majesty_," she all but spat the title out, as she stopped just an arm's length away from Kíli. "I do _nothing _that is not warranted."

Kíli was quite proud of his self-control. Before the loss of his uncle and brother, and his acceptance of Erebor's crown, he would have gotten right back into Kivi's face and given her a piece of his mind. But, Balin _had _managed to make some headway in getting it through Kíli's thick head that impulsiveness was _not _a quality that ought to be possessed in spades by a king. He chewed the inside of his lip - a habit he had started, when trying to stop himself from snapping out his most immediate thoughts - and narrowed his eyes in warning at his unexpected adversary.

"You're right," he practically ground the words out through gritted teeth. "I do indeed know nothing about you. I do not know about your kin and my House also knows nothing about yours. However, that means that I - and my people - have never done _anything _to you to deserve such hostility. My offer, sent through two of my most trusted dwarves, was given in good faith," some of Kíli's control slipped and he clenched his fists reflexively.

Kivi's face flushed a brilliant scarlet and her own control started to fade. Her eyes flashed and in other circumstances - in another time - Kíli would have taken a step back in surprise. She looked like she was about to slap him across the face.

"_**Kivi äiti**_!" Jarvi's voice was all but thunder on the mountain; the volume and tone of her cousin's warning stopped Kivi from lashing out (verbally or physically) - both actions that she would have regretted later, if not instantly. "_**Hän ei tiedä mitään sinusta , eikä menneisyyden . Älä rankaise häntä haavat hän koskaan luotu**_!" ["_Stone Mother!" / "He knows nothing of you, nor your past. Don't punish him for wounds he never created._"]

She didn't move, didn't turn away from Kíli. The two practically shot arrows at each other with their eyes, and both of their shoulders were tensed for a fight, their fists clenched hard at their sides. But, Kivi bit her tongue; her jaw worked furiously as she forced the words she wanted to shout back down into the depths of her throat. Jarvi took the moment to drop some of the volume of his voice and added almost gently -

"_**Olit väärässä , serkku . Myönnä se ja siirtyä eteenpäin**_." ["_You were wrong, cousin. Admit it and move on_."]

Kivi wanted to scream in frustration, but unfortunately, both Kíli and Jarvi had valid points. Even Bofur; nothing had been said so far by any of them that hadn't been said (albeit, much differently) by Jarvi, Etsijä, Katrikki, and Seppä in the last year.

She was as proud as any dwarf - perhaps prouder, since she was the heir to the only matriarchal House in all of Middle Earth. Kivi had also been broken - badly - at the cruel hands of the Ironfist lord, Synkkä. It had been 22 years since she had escaped, with the help of Jarvi and her older brother, Viljo, but Kivi hadn't been able to bring herself to trust any of the very few Khazâd that she had encountered in her travels. Before King Kíli and his messengers, she'd only met maybe half a dozen or so in her paths from _Kivi Torni_, to Minas Tirith, to Dol Amroth, to Dale. Kivi had made a concerted (and fairly successful) attempt to avoid much interaction with any of the dwarrow she had encountered.

This unexpected meeting, however, forced her hand. She had felt her stomach sinking when she began to realize who the long-haired, short-bearded Khazâd was. Initially, like Jarvi, she had joyously assumed that he was one of her House, a son of Thulin, come to find her, perhaps. To find out that he was none other than the King of Erebor had been a bit of a blow - distrust had immediately crept into Kivi's thoughts and disappointment colored her actions.

And, really, no small amount of embarrassment. She had hoped to rebuild Dale in peace - the reconstruction, if kept up at the same pace that she had set since new year, could be completed in another year. Then, she had thought, she would have been able to sufficiently observe the Erebor dwarrow as they went about their business through Dale - mostly merchants, although she had spotted the odd soldier or artisan wandering about through the days - and would be able to make her own informed decision about whether or not the King Under the Mountain was a man worthy of her craft.

It would seem now, however, that what Seppä had warned would happen...had happened.

_ "What you're doin' is shady at best, Äiti, and dishonorable at it's worst. You really think that you can rebuild a city of Men beneath Erebor's very shadow, and _not_ attract attention. The Longbeards are known for being stubborn - not stupid.:_

Seppä had gone on to swear (on more than one occasion) that Kivi's deception would surely be found out.

"_An' mark my words, no king is going to look favorably on that. You're all but showin' him your bare arse, __Äiti."_

The black-haired smithy's words rang in her ears, as Kivi took a deep, steadying breath, and spat at Kíli through equally clenched teeth:

"I have excellent reasons for being suspicious of _any _man's intentions, dwarrow or otherwise," her eyes flashed, despite her best effort to sound ameliorating, not argumentative. "Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further," the very idea terrified her, but Kivi swallowed roughly and continued doggedly on. "But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I refused to consider your request through yon Master Dwarf," the young chief motioned slightly toward Bofur, who still looked quite put upon. "You both should well remember that I _not _a daughter of Durin and I am not_ yours _to command."

She lifted her chin proudly, eyes daring Kíli to counter her challenge, and she could hear Jarvi all but groaning under his breath behind her.

"_**Tarvitsemmeliit olainen, Kivi...ei toinen vihollinen**_!" ["_We need an ally, Kivi...not another enemy_!"]

For a moment - for just a moment, Kivi thought about biting her tongue and sacrificing some of her pride on behalf of her people, who were still unwillingly enslaved to the Ironfists. It was what a p_äällikkö _would do. But, then Kíli opened his mouth...

"I am willing to provide you with whatever you so desire, if you would just _help_ your own kin," the young King finally lost his temper and he took a step toward Kivi, which she read as an attempt to intimidate her (in truth, it was just Kíli being Kíli - which meant he simply wasn't thinking his actions through the whole way).

"You are _not _my kin!" Kivi shot back; she took two steps forward and jabbed her finger squarely into the King's chest.

Kíli's eyes went big and he looked down at her hand and then back up at her. His personal boundaries hadn't been breached since he was crowned. Well, except for his mother; Dis was not a dwarrow-dam who took 'no' for an answer when it came to forcing her motherly affection upon her sole remaining son.

There was the sound of a scuffle to the side of them; Kíli didn't dare break eye contact with Kivi, as her furious, icy eyes were unexpectedly riveting. Kivi didn't look over either; there was a muffled curse in Bofur's voice, so the two adversaries assumed that either Bard or Jarvi had restrained him. Most likely, Bard, since there wasn't any further protest, besides the scraping of boots across the floor.

"_He _is my kin," Kivi jerked her other thumb behind her in her cousin's general direction. "My _kin _are Men of the North - the Forodwaith. My _kin _are the Ice-Elves. My _kin _are the Umli and the Fustir-gost, the Mornerim and the Avari. My _kin _are those of the North with whom I have grown up with, those I have called 'friend', those who have helped my House thrive in the frozen earth," the irate dwarf-maiden poked her finger into the center of Kíli's chest multiple times for emphasis. _"_My_ kin _are those that the Stiffbeards have depended onto survive, to thrive, and to tame what we _all _could of the harshest lands of Middle Earth."

The scuffling to the side grew more frantic and Bofur was starting to growl, apparently beyond reasonable articulation. There was a sharp exhale of breath and Kivi guessed that Bard had gotten an elbow to the stomach for all his trouble. Without looking away from Kivi, Kíli threw up his hand toward Bofur, his palm flat, fingers pointed up, in a silent, but unmistakable command to stay put.

"You value the kinship of Elves over the Khazâd ?" Kíli demanded quietly; there was a hint of wonder in his voice, Tauriel on his mind, but Kivi did not know him to note it.

"I value the kinship of _all _the races of the North who have depended on us, and we on them, to survive," Kivi hissed; she had moved unintentionally closer to Kíli until their noses were mere inches away from one another. "We have a saying in the North, among all our races - '_**Voit pudota jäihin omalla, mutta et voi säästää'**_. 'You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself'."

Kíli paused for effect, before looking Kivi straight in the eye and very quietly answering back:0

"Then you are a hypocrite, Kivi Journeyman. Because your kin - and yes, we _are _kin - of Durin's House have fallen through the ice."

A feather could have been heard falling to the floor in the moments after Kíli's soft retort; Master and King stared hard at each other, their individual thoughts a mystery to each other. Then, without warning, Kivi swiveled abruptly her heel and stalked out of Bard's Hall without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

* * *

><p><p>

Kíli fell back into his chair after Kivi and her cousin had left. He leaned his head back, covered his eyes with his bare forearm, and groaned.

"That went well," he mumbled.

"I-what-why," Bofur was practically beside himself and sputtered incoherently for several minutes. "Why did you let her _talk _to you like that? She _touched _you!"

"It's not like I'm here in an official capacity, Bofur," Kíli let his forearm fall back to his side and he glanced wearily over at his old friend with a shrug. "She treated me like an equal - quite frankly, that was a refreshing change of pace."

"She blatantly disrespected you!" Bofur insisted hotly.

"She was well within her right to do so," Kíli disagreed. "Let's be frank, Bofur - she owes the crown of Erebor no loyalty whatsoever. If she decided she wanted to come to Dale to observe us before making her decision, and to rebuild Bard's future kingdom in the interim, then that's entirely in her right."

"But -!"

Kíli held up his hand again and shook his head, his jaw set in a stubborn fashion that Bofur knew only too well.

"What do you think, Bard?" the young dwarf turned his head and considered the Man who had remained mostly silent during the exchange between the three dwarrow.

"I think that the two of you made right asses of yourselves," Bard was, if anything, brutally honest; it was part of why Kíli liked him so much. "You came off as aggressive and arrogant, Bofur," the Man squinted sternly at the dwarf in question, before he turned to Kíli. "And you need to think before you speak. Clearly, everything you said was either in the wrong tone or stated with the wrong set of words. Kivi is a proud woman and I am beginning to suspect that she has had a past more horrific than either of you can imagine. I am also beginning to suspect that she carries rank and privilege from among her own people. I would tread gently, Kíli."

"Well, it's not like I've had much experience in handling such...such..." he fumbled for the right word and waved his hand dismissively in frustration. "Such delicate negotiations."

Bard barked out loud in a terse, sarcastic laugh. He reached over and slapped the young king on the knee, the corners of his mouth twisted up in a wry smile.

"It has more to do with the fact that you clearly have _no _experience in dealing with women."

"Yes, I do," Kíli bristled.

Bard just laughed again and shook his head.

"Striking a business negotiation with a woman is a far cry from trying to negotiate a woman into bed, Kíli," the Bowman's dark eyes twinkled.

"For some that could be the same thing," Bofur muttered and Bard reached forward to cuff the impertinent engineer about his ear.

"You know what I mean, Master Dwarf," the Bowman rolled his eyes as he settled back on his stool.

"Well...dissecting what we've done wrong is only helpful up to a point," Kíli ran the fingers of one hand through his long hair in frustration. "Any productive suggestions about what to do moving forward?"

"I would ask why you're so determined to win Kivi's services, but I suppose I need only look at my own walls to know the answer to that," Bard sighed.

"And what she's done here is _nothing _to what she's done in Gondor," Bofur was almost grudging in his praise, but he meant it sincerely; in truth, he had never seen such stone-craft and he was not too proud to admit it.

"I can well believe that," Bard replied gravely; he turned his whole body toward Kíli and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

"My friend," he reached out with one hand and patted Kíli's knee again. "What you need to do is to _woo _Kivi. She will not respond to arrogance, or gestures of dominance, or to even the faintest hint of control. She is _not _a dwarf of Erebor, nor a daughter of Durin. In a way, she is quite correct - she is _not _your kin. I dare say, she's an entirely different type of dwarf and not one that any of you fools have ever encountered before," Bard patted Kíli's knee one last time and offered the scowling King an encouraging, if crooked, grin. "My best advice to you, Kíli? _Ask_, don't _tell_ -and don't, for the love of the Valar, send another dwarf to ask on your behalf. She treated you like an equal and you have admitted yourself that you appreciated it. Give her the same courtesy, Your Majesty."

* * *

><p><p>

**Reference**

_**Motsognir**_ - Mahal's name in a derivative of Delsk (native language of the Northern Rhovanian, to include the Men of Dale) spoken by the Stiffbeards.

_**Chirurgeon**_ - a ye olde French word for surgeon/doctor; seemed an appropriate term for the feel of Tolkien's world.

_**Losrandir**_ - reindeer".


	4. Memories

_"For home, a song that echoes on;_

_And all who find us will know the tune."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

><p><strong>Akhalathnurt 'Afgargablâg 2nd<strong>

_(Tuesday May 19th)_

**Dale**

* * *

><p>It started with Bard.<p>

"Morning, _Mestari_," the Bowman said, pleasantly enough, as he strolled casually up toward Kivi's work station.

Her work crews hadn't yet reported for the day; the sun was barely above the horizon and full light wouldn't flood the nooks and crevasses of Dale for at least another hour. Kivi, however, was ever early to bed and early to rise; as the chief supervisor of the city's rebuilding, there was always plenty of work to be done before the crews shuffled up to their meeting point, yawning widely, still half-asleep.

She hovered over her makeshift table and scribbled notes to herself in a large, oil-stained, and weather-beaten leather journal. Every so often, she would tuck her quill behind her ear and squint hard at the almost haphazard array of blueprints spread out before her. When pausing to consider and think, she would raise a sturdy, steaming, green-glazed ceramic mug to her lips and sip at its contents absent-mindedly. There was a bowl perched just within her reach, filled with a peculiar, red-tinted porridge, the likes of which Bard hadn't ever seen. He eyed it thoughtfully and then over at Kivi's mug, out which was emanating a deep and smoky scent into the still-crisp morning air.

"Mornin'," Kivi answered gravely from around the rim of her mug; her blue eyes tracked Bard's movement and the Bowman knew that she already suspected the reason for his unexpected visit.

He decided to ignore the obvious for the moment.

"An interesting breakfast," he waved a hand casually at Kivi's wooden bowl and glazed mug.

"Not so, really," the mason glanced down at her red-tinted meal with a wry half-smile. "I suppose, then, that you've never had a porridge made out of _**cowberries**_."

"Cowberries?" Bard blinked in surprise and leaned over the table to peer at the contents of Kivi's wooden bowl. "You can eat them, then?"

"Let me guess," Kivi didn't even try to hide the laughter in her voice. "You Men only give them to cattle?"

"Well...yes," Bard's dark hair moved slightly against the side of his throat as he shook his head in surprise; equally dark eyes rose up to meet the dwarf-maid's amused face. "I was always told that they were poisonous - for Men, at least," his gaze dropped again to consider the innocuous bowl of porridge. "Because of the vibrant color and all."

Kivi gave up on being stoic. Her laughter rolled against the stones around them with a gentle peel, the timbre of it husky and rich, yet unmistakably feminine. She shook her head in ill-Dísguised mirth and the sun rising slowly above the tower behind them caught the scarlet strands woven naturally amid her golden hair.

"What is it with the folks of the West and their aversion to bright colors?" she chortled, eyes sparkling like chipped crystal. "We call them _**puolukka **_in the North and in my southern travels, I thought they had Dísappeared into my childhood, a fond memory," her full lips curled upward in a cheerful smile as she picked up the bowl with one hand and offered it to Bard. "But, imagine my surprise when I traveled here to Dale and found whole bunches of them growing in the cracks and crevasses of the ruins that overlook this valley. They are a treasured fruit of my kin and grow so plentiful in the Northern Waste, that whole fields will be spread with a pleasing array of deep green leaves and scarlet berries for as far as the eye can see. Please, try."

If it was one thing Bard had learned in his nearly two years of dealing with dwarves, it was that one did not decline their generosity. He shared Kivi's smile, reached over across the table, and cupped his larger hands around the smooth sides of the bowl. It was still warm, the heat soaking through his bare palm and soothing the callouses on his fingers. He picked up the spoon that was propped up against the side of the Dísh and took a tentative bite.

"Hmm..." the Bowman mumbled around a mouthful as he rolled the porridge across his tongue and swallowed. "It's quite tart."

"It is," Kivi couldn't stop a friendly chuckle. "Most of my people put more sugar into the porridge than I do - Seppä, for example. But, I like it a little tart for a morning repast. Wakes up the senses."

Bard took another bite, as if to confirm his opinion of the matter. He squinted off into the Dístance as he chewed slowly and thoughtfully.

"I like it," he finally determined and handed the bowl back to Kivi with an easy grin. "You will have to share the recipe with Sigrid. It would indeed make a good breakfast."

"It's easy enough to make - Tilda could make it as well, I wager," Kivi all but beamed with the Man's approval. "Or you, or Bain," she shrugged with a wide smile. "It's nothing more than rough-ground grain, mashed cowberries, sugar, and a little cream."

"Simple enough, then," Bard agreed, with an appraising eye cast down on the brightly colored porridge.

"Simple, but hardy," Kivi picked up her mug and sipped at its contents with an air of particular satisfaction. "It's what we folk of the North do best."

"It would seem that your kin are people of great humility...and even greater skill," Bard lifted his eyes toward the scaffolds built up against the nearby walls and the half-way finished arch between them.

"I assure you, our humility is but practicality. The odds of survival are considerably higher when one watches her tongue," Kivi snorted into her drink, but her eyes still twinkled with good will. "As for our skill..." she set her mug down gently on the table in front of her and traced a finger carefully around its rim. "That, too, comes from sheer practicality. Like all dwarrow, we dig into the earth, but the wilds of our homeland are frozen for more months of the year than they are green, and the earth is much harder there than here. Wood is fragile and catches fire too easily in the dry, snowy air; in some places it is also quite scarce and put to better use _as _firewood, for our hearths, for our life heat," she spoke softly, her eyes fixed to the walls as well.

She seemed to be in something of a trance as she recalled the ways of the Stiffbeards; Bard hung on every word. This was more than he had ever heard Kivi speak about herself, her people, or her homeland.

"Like all dwarrow, my kin also burrow into the bones of this world. But, we do not mine so deeply as the others. Instead, we depend on stone for our survival - stone supports and shelters us. Without it, our ancestors would have died long ago, in Thulin's age. Stone is integral to our survival and so, we have learned to master our craft," Kivi glanced solemnly toward Bard, who met her gaze with equal intensity. "Our stone must support the weight of our kin, it must shelter us and all who come to us for survival during _**S**__**hulukadrân**_, or Deep Winter . It must bear the weight of mountains covered almost always in layers of hardened ice and snow. It must protect us from the cold drakes and the storms. One mistake made by the mallet of a mason can kill hundreds of my kin as swiftly and as cruelly as the frost. Ours is a sacred duty, a matter of truest trust," she glanced down and briefly brushed her fingers against the iron mallet that was laying dutifully at the edge of the table by her left hand. "We never forget that."

"So, Dale is in the best of hands, then," Bard had never once questioned Kivi's skill, but it still buoyed his hopes to hear her speak of how integral her craft really was to her own identity.

"It would be in the best of hands, if _any _Stiffbeard mason were here," Kivi shook her head, braid bouncing, as cautious as ever of praise that might single her out. "Dale is indeed in the best of hands, because I am a Stiffbeard, but not by any virtue of my own self."

It was this humility that intrigued Bard - not because he felt it was disingenuous, as he had observed equal displays of humble evasion to praise from Kivi's four adult companions, but because he suspected that, in Kivi's case, it was a product of some strange secrecy. Bard, as an archer and a long-time boatman of Laketown, had a keen instinct when it came to others - instincts sharpened by a life on the fickle water and a life with the fickle Master. He had known from the very day he met her, that Kivi Journeyman had much about her self hidden away. That intrigued Bard, but he was wise enough not to pry. She had never lied to him, or even so much as quibbled in the time she'd spent among the Men of Dale. This was enough to urge Bard to keep his tongue and curiosity in check - the dwarf-maid would tell him in her own time and probably in abrupt, unexpected revelations, like this one.

He couldn't help poking, though, ever so lightly.

"Seppä would seem to disagree," Bard softened his words with a roguish smile and a sidelong glance at his short friend.

Kivi had the reaction he expected - she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes skyward.

"Seppä has high expectations - if you haven't noticed, he's a most unrealistic dwarf."

Bard just laughed and countered with an easy:

"He said your mother was a Stone-Singer and could shape the most elegant structures - structures that could withstand the weight of ages."

"My mother _was _special," a great sadness darkened the clarity of Kivi's eyes and Bard felt a sudden regret for bringing up what was apparently a topic of grief. "And she was indeed a Stone-Singer - like her father before her and her grandmother before him," the gold-and-copper strands of her hair framed the curves of her face and only seemed to accentuate how very young she was.

_Too young to lose a mother, _Bard realized with a pang of empathy; he had and still did think the same of his own two daughters.

"But," Kivi carried on, her voice much softer now, with memory and pain. "She died young and I was young, as well - too young, in fact, to have learned much of the great knowledge she had to pass down. I have learned what I have mostly from my early youth and from her journal," her hand drifted to the sturdy, well-worn journal on the table between her and the Bowman. "And from an Ice Elf," the dwarf-maiden's lips curled up wryly at the corners. "Which is the height of irony, really," she finally lifted her eyes and offered a chagrined little smile to Bard. "Since it was _my _ancestors who taught _Katrikki_'s forefathers how to shape the stones to their will."

Bard's eyebrows threatened to fly off of his forehead in surprise.

"But, isn't Katrikki a healer…?"

"She is," Kivi chuckled softly and shook her head; her braid bounced brightly against the front her bright blue tunic. "But, Katrikki is the daughter of a mason herself. And Jarvi is a mason, too - he has had a great role in teaching me the secrets of our people."

"Isn't he a...ah…" Bard paused, wondering what was the most delicate way to state the obvious.

"A half-dwarf?" Kivi's brilliant blue eyes glanced slyly up and over toward her taller friend. "That would be the colloquial way of describing his lineage. But, _if _the Umli are indeed a mixture of dwarven and Mannish blood, it is a thing that happened long before the memories of our ancestors. Although," she pursed her lips thoughtfully and tilted her head to the side. "Intermarriage between the Umli and the Stiffbeards is neither forbidden or unusual," she shrugged and a winsome smile finally brightened her face. "After all, he _is _my cousin."

"Your..." Bard thought quickly. "Father's nephew, then?"

"Yes. Umli is the youngest son of my father's youngest sister," Kivi's face darkened again, but not quite so severely as before. "When he reached his age of Choice, he asked to be apprenticed to my father. Jarvi, if you haven't noticed, is cheerful and…" Kivi wrinkled her nose comically, her eyes twinkling teasingly. "Well, quite _loud_. Far too loud for the dour Umli. He fit in much better with us Stiffbeards and he had many years to learn my father's craft. I have, in many respects, learned far more of my father's skills, than my mother's."

"Surely your father was a great mason in his own right," Bard didn't mean for his words to sound quite so obsequious and he winced a bit to himself.

Kivi just threw her head back and laughed.

"No, not really," she grabbed her braid and threw it over her shoulder, so it could swing freely across her back; she winked playfully at the Bowman, to ease some of his embarrassment. "Isä had many duties to fulfill that had nothing to do with masonry, so he could not devote himself to his craft as much my mother could. He was solid - a true and masterful mason, to be sure. But, he was no Stone-Singer or Stone-Master, and he would tell you that himself, were he here to do so."

Her smile, again, turned a little sad, so Bard tried to push the conversation past such sad remembrances.

"Your companions all seem to think that _you'll _become a Stone-Singer yourself, one day," his dark eyes watched Kivi closely, in the hope that the sorrow on her face might fade again.

"Perhaps," Kivi shrugged, all practicality and humility again; she didn't quite meet Bard's gaze and fiddled absently with the corner of one parchment blueprint. "But, they have not yet begun to sing to me and I cannot sing to them until that bond has been made."

"Stones...sing?" Bard nearly gave himself whiplash as he turned to peer curiously at the silent walls above them.

"The earth is a living thing, you understand," Kivi's voice was reverent and firm, her words assured by a deep-seated knowledge that the Man before her could only marvel over. "The soil, the grass," she waved at the unremarkable dust and dirt at their feet. "They are but the skin. The rocks, the stones, the gems? They are the earth's bones and they whisper their secrets as surely as the wind above them."

Bard watched Kivi with a mixture of Dísbelief and awe. He had never heard such things - much less from a dwarf. In fact, he was fairly certain this was the longest conversation he had ever _had _with one of the Khazâd - Kíli notwithstanding.

"They don't sing like sparrows or crickets, mind you. But, I remember my mother saying once that each stone, each metal, each bone of the earth had its own harmony when struck with chisel and mallet. She could carve so certainly and so swiftly, that she could make the stones sing as she worked. I watched her once, when she didn't know I was there, when I was a dwarfling younger than Kari or Kal," Kivi stared straight ahead at Dale's resurrected southern wall; her gaze never wavered, nor her voice, but Bard could hear her loss all the same. "She sang to them - she sang _with _them, with the rhythm of her tools, and with the steady beat of her iron against the stone. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

"I can, perhaps, Master Bowman, claim to be a _Mestari_ among the worlds of Men," slowly, Kivi turned her fiery heard toward Bard and looked solemnly up at him. "But I could not claim to be a _Mestari_ among my own people, within my own homeland. And I am certainly no Stone-Singer."

There was a long, painful silence between the two of them. Finally, Bard took a deep breath and sighed heavily into the brightening morning.

"But," he shoved his thumbs into the sturdy width of his belt. "Dale is in good hands."

"You have my word," Kivi spoke with all the sincerity of an oath-making.

Bard chewed the inside of his lip for a moment as he debated on whether to leave the conversation amiably at that...or to press his luck toward his original intentions. A harsh squawk and abrupt flurry of wings distracted him and he jerked his head up toward the sky at the same time Kivi did. A pair of energetic ravens flapped and fluttered over the top of a newly rebuilt guard tower to the right of the reconstructed gate. The caws of the two birds echoed through Dale's lower streets, startling more than their fair share of sleepy workmen, yawning merchants, and bleary-eyed beggars.

"Ugh," Kivi made a noise of deepest disgust as she lowered her head and reached for her still-steaming mug. "The favored birds of Durin's kin just _had _to be ravens."

"Have something against ravens?" Bard tried to make light of the situation and laughed easily as the ravens' din began to fade the further they flew.

"They're carrion birds," Kivi pinched her lips together, as if she had just taken a bit of an unsweetened cowberry. "Foul and loud," her eyes flashed fiercely at Bard, as if daring the man to contradict her. "Omens of death and war. What king in his right mind would make such dark portents his personal_** toteemi**_?"

"His what?" Bard shook his head, confused.

"His…" Kivi waved an exasperated hand in the air between them as she searched for the right word. "His _emblem_. His...symbol, I suppose."

"Ah," the Bowman glanced upward again, at the now raven-less sky.

As a curious aside, he added:

"Do the lords of the Stiffbeards have a...ah..._toteemi_?" he forced his mouth to work around the foreign word and was quite pleased to hear that it came out not half as horribly as he would have thought.

"Theirs is the Pale Owl, the _**kalpea pöllö**_," Bard did _not _miss the wistfulness that crept into Kivi's voice. "They are noble creatures, the great birds of prey in the far North. They have wingspans nearly as long as a dwarf is tall. They are graceful and silent - keepers of secrets and ancient wisdoms."

"Quite the opposite of ravens then, I imagine," Bard offered her an encouraging half-smile.

"Indeed," Kivi quirked her lips in something that her companion couldn't decide was a smirk or a grimace.

Silence, again.

Bard took another deep breath, as Kivi took another deep sip of her drink.

What he _meant _to say next was something along the lines of : "_What do you have against Erebor, exactly?_" What came out, instead, was:

"I have never heard you speak so freely about your people, your homeland."

The Bowman had quite startled himself by the unintended admission and he blinked owlishly at Kivi. For her part, the master mason's face softened into an expression that was almost self-conscious.

"You are an easy audience," she shrugged and cast her eyes down, as if suddenly shy. "And you have caught me on a morning where I am, perhaps, more nostalgic than I would be normally."

"You are an unusual dwarf," Bard observed gently; his gaze never strayed from Kivi's down-turned face. "Seppä, too. You're as secretive as any dwarf I've ever met, but you have from the beginning offered a hand of friendship to me, my family, and the people of Dale. I have never met dwarrow so willing to help those not of their own race."

"That is because the Stiffbeards have learned a lesson that the other Khazâd have yet to fully learn," Kivi looked up at that, her face proud and - Bard could think of no other word - regal. "We have learned to exist in a world that would kill us in our very sleep. We are dependent on each other – and _all _honorable races of the North. We have learned to be interdependent, for there is no other way to live in the Wastes.

"The Forodwaith - the Men - hunt whales and the beasts of the icy seas. They trade oil, food, skins with us. The Umli are master hunters and herders - it is they who taught my forefathers how to be invisible amid the snow, how to find food, to herd the horned losrandir, how to train the loyal _**reikikoriat**_ to pull our sleds. The Ice-Elves have taught us how to heal our wounds, what dangers to avoid in herb and berry, how to read the sky, the stars, the weather. And in turn, we have taught them all how to carve stone, how to build, how to tend fires that never wane. In the days of Thulin, our _**Vanha Isä**_, he swore an oath that we have solemnly kept to this very age – from the first day of _**Iklaladrân**_, to the last day of _Shulukadrân_, for five months total, we welcome any wanderer into our halls. Be they Man, Elf, or Dwarf, they are welcome to partake of our hearth fires and the safety of our stones. This hospitality is the cornerstone of all that my people are," Kivi explained solemnly, her husky voice filling the balmy summer air with memories of ice, hoar, and frozen winter nights. "In the North, the word 'kin' extends far beyond the Khazâd. We are _all _kin, for we cannot survive without each other."

Bard could not help but be awed by the fierce nobility of Kivi's words. She was as proud to be a daughter of Thulin, as any dwarf of Erebor was to be a son of Durin. There was a depth of honor, a veneration of memory that grounded her words in a way that no Man of Dale could claim of his or her own histories. Bard felt oddly to compelled to bow his head respectfully to her, as respectfully as if she were Kíli himself.

"You honor me deeply with these stories of your homeland," tawny eyes met cerulean, solemnly and admiringly. "It is an honor to have you and your kin with us, Kivi Journeyman, and I will always, gladly, call you 'friend'," Bard paused and a subtle tension now slipped in between them.

He took a steadying breath and watched as Kivi read his body language. Her own shoulders pulled back and a slight frown marred her high, smooth forehead. They had come to the juncture of their conversation and they both sensed it, as strangely connected in thought and knowledge as if they had known each other intimately for decades. Bard swallowed hard and hoped he would not Dísplease her with the question that now quite begged to be asked.

"But," he watched as Kivi's eyes now narrowed ever so subtly. "If you are so honor-bound to help rebuild the walls of Men," Bard motioned wide around them, never once breaking eye contact with the stocky mason. "Then why will you not rebuild the halls of Durin?"

Anger crackled darkly through Kivi's eyes, altering the clarity there like sharp divides in broken ice. She lifted her chin proudly, haughtily, her demeanor now as unwavering as the very stones she carved.

"Because I am not a daughter of Durin, for Kíli Thorinkin to order about as he likes."

"He's not _ordering _you though," Bard fought the urge to reach up and rub his temples in exasperation; for all of Kivi's openness around him, she was as stereo typically obstinate as any dwarf he'd met. "He's _asking_."

"If the King Under the Mountain wishes to _request _my assistance, then he can stop speaking through the mouths of others and ask me himself," Kivi's voice was now as sharp as her ever-present chisel. "I _might _consider such a thing, should he climb off that accursed throne of his, and set aside his arrogance. But," she pursed her lips sourly. "I rather suspect the deserts of _**Haradwaith**_ will freeze first."

"He _is _a king, you know. The _high _king, really, of the Khazâd, to my best understanding," Bard frowned and shifted his feet in frustration. "As such, it _is _in his right to order and offer."

"There is a divide among the children of Mahal," Kivi stubbornly shook her head, unmoved by Bard's limited understanding of the Khazâd. "And Kíli Thorinkin should well know that. Durin's Sons may rule the West, but the heirs of Thulin rule the East. And so it has ever been. I am _not _his to command."

Bard squirreled this revelation away in the back of his mind to bring to Kíli's attention later. He had never heard such a thing about the dwarrow - but as he now thought of it, he hadn't ever really heard much of anything about the Eastern Houses of the Khazâd, either. While what Kivi claimed shocked the Bowman, he briefly mused that with as little understanding as he had of the dwarrow (and none at all about their Eastern kin), then it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility for Kivi's word to reinforce the dwarf-maiden's refusal to acquiesce.

And yet, Bard couldn't help feeling there was more…

"You speak of him as an equal. You treated him that way, as well," he eyed her thoughtfully, carefully.

To his surprise, Kivi showed no reaction to his subtle prod into the deeper depths of her identity. Her face was as impassive as the mountain beyond them and she smoothly dodged his inquiry with a sharp retort that revealed absolutely nothing.

"I did indeed approach Kíli Thorinkin as an equal," if anything, her expression was mulish, her eyes unrepentant. "And if he ever wishes to have my cooperation, then he will extend the same courtesy to me."

And that was that. Kivi Journeyman would not speak any more of it and Bard left soon thereafter in a mixture of mild irritation, piqued curiosity, and deepened respect toward the enigmatic dwarven-maid who so was so painstakingly piecing back together his ancestral home.

* * *

><p><strong>Akhalathnurt 'Afgargablâg 2nd<strong>

_(Tuesday May 19th)_

_**Erebor**_

* * *

><p>Kíli let out a long, deep sigh as he lowered himself down into one of the many hot springs beneath the mountain. This particular one was located just beneath the Royal Level, and as such, was exclusively reserved for the King Under the Mountain and his family members. At this particular point, that privilege strictly encompassed only Kíli, but he had extended an invitation to Lord Dáin to use the baths when he so wished, as Kíli had also given him a room in one of the three wings that circled around the more centrally-placed baths.<p>

All of the Royal rooms were built along the outermost curve of the mountain, facing the city of Dale, the plains between them, and the glistening ribbon of River Running as it started its long journey south from its source deep within Erebor. Almost all of the rooms had a balcony, although none so grand as the King's; from within his chambers, Kíli could throw the heavy stone doors of his balcony wide open and entertain as many as a party of six there in the fresh air and sunlight.

On the inside of the mountain, the halls of the Royal Level were open on the left side, to Dísplay a breath-taking view of the levels, walkways, balconies, and stairways of the kingdom above and below them. The floors of those hallways were made of pale blue sky-stone, threaded with intricate laces of silver and edged with delicate golden Fíligree. The walkways were carefully framed with study banisters made of polished black marble and brass; they were just about the height of an average dwarf's chest and as such, were the perfect height for leaning against and looking over without fear of overbalancing and plummeting to one's doom.

The level beneath the Royal apartments, however, was more enclosed and carefully guarded. In fact, the only main entrance to the apartments branched off of the walled hallway that lead to the very baths in which Kíli now rested. The baths themselves were artificial - the pools and their depths specifically engineered by dwarrow masons to mimic the more natural caverns deeper inside the mountain. But, the hot spring water that filled the pleasant, dimly lit baths was from the heart of the mountain itself. Long ago, the dwarves had found hot springs a plenty within Erebor and also the heart of the River Running itself - a deep and seemingly bottomless spring that was filled with the freshest, coldest water known to Durin's kin. The hot springs were ingeniously used to warm the kingdom, along with the steam and fires of the forges deeper below. The Heartspring (as River Running's source was called) and its handful of smaller, tertiary springs, supplied all of the cooking and drinking water - all of the springs were duly guarded, the cold springs especially, and as a result, the people of Erebor never had to fear the quality of their water.

Strong pipes and reinforced plumbing made it possible to pump both hot water and cold water from the various springs into the dwarf-made baths, so that no one dwarf (King or commoner) had to stray far from their homes or quarters to wash themselves. Kíli currently sat in one of the hot baths, on a gently curved, shallow seat of sorts that had been carved into the side of the pool. He had come from an invigorating wash in the cold baths - which were neatly separated from the warmer pools, to avoid an excess of steam. He relaxed in a smaller pool, one that had been scented with herbs to relax the muscles in his thigh and to soothe the ever-present ache in his chest. He had his arms slung along either side of the carved seat and had sunk down into the water far enough to bow his back slightly and lay his head against a padded leather pillow that had been left there for his convenience.

Kíli breathed deeply, drawing the hot spring's steam into his lungs like he would a fine pipe smoke. He held it for a moment and then let his breath out slowly. This was the only time that he'd had alone to himself since sunrise - and last he checked, the moon had long since climbed into the star-lit night. It had been a draining day, full of sorrow and grief, as the last of the eastern interlock's recovered bodies were lovingly entombed in the Halls of Memory.

For once, however, Balin relayed a mostly positive response to Kíli's words and royal actions upon Erebor's cold stone throne that day. The young king felt at least _some _tension leave his body when such news was delivered. His words had apparently soothed many of the broken hearts that had gathered sorrowfully in the Great Chamber of Thrór after the burial ceremonies had been concluded; among that number were, reportedly, a significant number of Dáin's kin. This was quite the accomplishment, Balin had assured him, since support of Kíli's right to the throne was greatly needed from the Iron Hills dwarrow, in order to ensure both peace and stability among the three Houses of the West.

Kíli opened his eyes, which he had closed during his brief muse over the day, and gazed wryly up toward the ceiling which disappeared in the warm, damp darkness. The other business of a king seemed to escape him continuously, or confuse him, or utterly overwhelm him.

But, grief? Grief he knew. He had spoken nothing but what was true that day, what came from his heart. He mourned the continued losses of his people - it was not so difficult to communicate that to others. It came far easier to him than words of mirth, or council.

A sudden kerfuffle outside of the nearby door to the baths prevented Kíli's thoughts from taking a turn for the worse. He agitated the water around him as he abruptly sat up, but not enough to splash onto the stone floor, which was carefully kept as dry as possible, to prevent any unfortunate slips. His long, dark hair stuck in wet tendrils against his cheeks and mouth as he whipped his head around to eye the dimly lit walkway behind him.

"But, but...Your Highness!" Dwalin's deep voice echoed against the stones outside in clear and obvious distress.

The door flew open and a stout figure in what appeared to be quite definitely in skirts paused proudly in the light that flooded harshly into the baths.

"He isna' decent!" a taller silhouette appeared to the side and Kíli could see a thick arm reach out to grab the skirted figure back.

"_**Yi'**_!" a wondrously familiar voice that Kíli knew as certainly as the sound of his own heart's beating chimed dismissively through the clouds of steam that billowed in protest against the cooler air that now intruded. "I brought the King of Erebor into this world with naught to cover him from my sight! I have nursed him, and dressed him, and chased his bare little _**khakhaf**_ over half of Ered Luin, just to corral him into a bath! What dwarrow-dam would I be if I were embarrassed by my own son's body?" ["_Bah_!"] ["_Buttocks_"]

The figure - the only one that brought Kíli any joy whatsoever any more - marched resolutely into the bath, as Dwalin grumbled darkly behind her.

"No more, Dwalin!" she was now close enough that Kíli could hear her skirts swish as she stopped and waved her hand toward the door. "Leave me to speak to my son in the way that I so choose."

"Well, it wouldna' hurt if ya' chose to speak to him _decently_. At least, for the love of Mahal, he shouldna' talk to a lady in anything less than his trousers!" Dwalin was apparently determined to have the last word; before any retort could be tossed back to him, he had shut the bath-house door behind him, perhaps a wee bit harder than was absolutely necessary.

"As if I could see anything in all this bloody steam," skirts rustled again as, evidently, Kíli's guest found the small stool behind him, upon which his towel had been precariously placed. "And as if I'd see anything I haven't had to bathe before, in any event."

Kíli laughed, his first true expression of joy in nearly a year - since the last time he had seen or spoken to his mother - Dís, sister of Thorin Oakenshield and Queen Mother of Erebor.

"I was quite a bit smaller in those days, _**Khagun**_," he squinted through the steam, but could only see his mother as a solid mass and not much more. ["_Mother_"]

Dís laughed brightly at that; something rustled again and Kíli could picture her smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in the lap of her deep blue dress.

Kíli's quick way with words had always brought a smile to her face. He had always had a personality not unlike her's - witty, puckish, and just a tad bit bawdy. His similarity to her, in truth, was one of the reasons she had always worried over him so, lecturing him on his brashness and cavalier dismissal of danger. Thorin had once told him, in a moment of typical frustration, that Dís had been much the same way in her youth - always dashing off in search of adventure, while her brothers scrambled desperately after her, resigned to being dragged along, to carrying her back home, and being blamed thoroughly for any mishap that befell her.

And, usually, blamed also for her going off on adventures in the first place.

"_Frerin was always reading those damned history books to her - the ones with all the great deeds and feats of our forefathers and Durin reborn. Filled your mother's head with a taste for what she couldn't have."_

"You didn't send word that you were coming," Kíli tucked his good leg underneath him and turned, so that he was now resting his elbows on the stone floor, facing the misty form of his mother, his chest and stomach pressed up against the curve of the hewn cubby where he sat.

He folded his forearms side-by-side and rested his chin in the gentle groove between them. The steam was beginning to settle down, as the air within the chamber regulated itself once again. The features of Dís' proud face, thick hair, and elaborate braids was beginning to come into focus and for a moment, Kíli felt for all the world like a dwarfling again, being distracted in his bath-time play by his mother's mellow, dulcet voice.

"Yes, well...I've become quite well known in Ered Luin for my seclusion," Dís reached up and tucked one of her smaller braids behind her ear - it was the one she wore for Thorin, as it was fastened by a clasp he'd made for her so very long ago. "Had I come out of such a thing so suddenly, saying that I wished to visit you...well, it would have made quite a stir. Which is not so much a bad thing," she added after a reflective pause. "But," she turned her head and finally, son and mother could make eye contact through the thin veil of steam that separated them. "I wished to have time - of my own make and choosing - with my only son, to speak privately with one another."

"You could speak with me privately whenever you wished, _Khagun_," Kíli titled his head so that his right cheek almost touched the patch of hair on his arms that was thickening slowly as he grew older.

"Yes...but if I had come with a full retinue and sufficient notice, it would be days before I could truly capture such time like this with you, _**dashat**_," Dís smiled gently at her youngest - her only remaining – child. ["_Son_"]

"_**Nâm**_," Kíli murmured softly - his mother had a point; he frowned then a bit. "What brought you out of Ered Luin in the first place? Not that I'm not overjoyed to see you," he lifted his head and smiled at Dís a bit ruefully in the hopes that she didn't misinterpret his question. ["_Ahhh_"]

"I went to pray before the Forge of Mahal some time ago," Dís finally turned her gaze away from Kíli and considered her demurely folded hands, which glistened faintly in the ambient lamps high above them, from the number of golden rings she wore as symbols of her status and wealth. "I thought that when I lost your father, that I had would never feel such a dark despair ever again. But, losing my last remaining _**nadad**_ and your only…" one strong, but slim-fingered hand reached up to brush at the high curve of her cheek. "Oh, Kíli. I was so very wrong. My heart has been truly buried - I went to beseech Mahal to beg Him to take me so that I might shed the bitterness of this world and be with your father, your brother, your uncle once again." ["_Brother_"]

Kíli's own heart thundered in his chest with a rhythm that was as painful as a hammer pounding against his ribs. He could not bear the thought of his mother being taken from him, too - not so soon, in any event. The pain flowing through his body, through his heart was also one of visceral empathy - he knew only too well what drove his mother to Mahal's Forge in such desperation. He, too, had been far beyond all grief or sorrow and had sought such boons from the Father as well.

He said nothing of this to his mother, however. He simply pressed his cheek to the top of his arms and silently thanked the dimness of their surroundings for masking the tears that threatened to spill down his own cheeks. At this particular moment, after such a deep confession from Dís, Kíli didn't quite trust himself to speak.

Dís didn't seem to mind - if anything, she knew her son was crying as well and she continued on, her voice shaky, but clear.

"As you can see, Mahal did _not _answer my prayers," she tried to laugh, but all that came was a soft, whispery hiccup. "But," Kíli watched silently as the back of her hand now wiped quickly across both of her cheeks. "He sent your father, Ríkin, to me first, in a dream. Then Frerin. Then Fíli. And lastly, Thorin."

Kíli roughly scrubbed his cheek against his arms, to wipe away his tears. He lifted his head, instantly alert, curious, and strangely hopeful at Dís' words. He had always heard that his mother possessed the ability to dream-see, but since Ríkin had died between Kíli's own conception and birth, the young king had only ever heard tales of Dís' occasional gift. Losing Ríkin had robbed her, it had seemed, of the ability to dream-see and once, when he had asked about it as a dwarfling just on the cusp of his adolescence, Dís had said as much herself.

Apparently, however, her dream-seeing had not entirely deserted her after all. Or, perhaps, her grief and desperation had been so much, that Mahal had decided it was best to let her walk the misty worlds one more time, so that she could find the hope she needed to carry on. In any event, Kíli was glad of Mahal's intervention and he leaned further against the stone against his chest, eager to hear what the memories of his loved ones had revealed to Dís' broken heart.

Dís noticed her son's youthful hope and smiled gently at him, her eyes drifting lovingly over the dark, winsome face that was so very much like the uncle he'd never been able to know - Frerin, the brother she had adored from birth. She had often thought that there was Thorin in Kíli's eyes, her own self in his roguish smile, Ríkin in his slender form, and Frerin in his face. They all lived on in the youngest King Under the Mountain - kings within their own right, standing loyally in Kíli's own two shoes, willing to give him the strength to reign as they each would have done.

_If you could but see that, dashat,_ Dís thought sadly.

_That _was the true reason why she had come without warning from Ered Luin, that was the message that her fallen family had been sent to give her. Women did not usually council their kings, but Dís had been shown that winds of change had long been blowing over the mountain. It was her mother's duty to help her son heal, to guide him, to teach him, to show him how to reforge the broken pieces of his spirit. She had been told that it was time for her to step in, she had been reminded that not all was lost, that one last flame of hope flickered within the darkened ruins of _**Azsâlul'abad**_. She could no longer think of herself; it was now time for Dís to come into her own as a Princess of Erebor.

Kíli could - and would, and had - resist the guidance of Balin, or Gloin, or Dwalin. But, he could not resist his mother. Not when they both knew the depth of their shared losses. Dís took a deep breath, sat up straighter on her stool and turned her gaze back toward Kíli, her king, her son.

"**_Kibil_**," Dís spoke her only-son's True Name ever so gently into the thick air, an honor and privilege restricted to her, her late husband, and the One that Kíli might yet wed. "The _**avelut**_ is over; your year and a day is long past. Mahal has kept you here for a purpose that you must honor," as she spoke, Dís rose softly from her seat and knelt carefully on the stone floor so she could cup her son's stubbled cheeks in both her hands and lift his face to meet hers. "It is time to accept your crown, _**Thanu men.**_" [_"My King"_]

"Have you not mourned past the appropriate time, _Khagan_?" Kíli's voice matched his mother's in softened timber, but his words were defensive - he had grown more than weary with the expectations of others to lay aside his grief as if it were a passing fancy.

Dís seemed to sense some of the king's thoughts. She shook her head and a few strands of steam-loosened hair brushed against Kíli's upturned face. He breathed in deeply the scent of rosemary and almonds, which he had associated with his mother for as long as he could remember. It calmed him and diffused some of his irritation.

"Kíli, _thanu men_, you are indeed correct - I have mourned long past my time. It is, perhaps, the one custom of our people that I have tried to fight the hardest. I remember as if it were yesterday, the day when I received your father, cold and bloody on his shield," tears threatened to fall again, but Dís never broke eye contact with her son, never moved her fingers from beneath his chin. "Fíli was barely beyond a babe in arms and you were still growing within me. I was young and full of despair - the midwives had to fight with me to take care of myself, to take care of you."

Kíli's eyes grew a bit wide in the dimness - this was a part of his origins that he had never known. Always, his mother had seemed cheerful, if ever-anxious over the safety of her sons; she had always been firm of hand, but never once could remember a time when she did not comfort him when he needed it. The only time that illusion of a strong dwarrow-dam had been shattered, was when he'd last seen her, kneeling at the side of Fíli's tomb and sobbing softly into her hands for hours. The memory softened his stubborn heart further and he would have lowered his head to the floor in shame, but her smooth hands prevented him from dropping his gaze.

"It was Thorin who pulled me - protesting quite mightily, I confess - out of my sorrow. I'll never forget," a watery smile lifted Dís' lips ever so slightly. "Oh! The fuss he made! I was in labor with you, screaming and crying for Ríkin, and he quite thoroughly scandalized the midwives when he came bursting through the door without warning."

Kíli finally broke free of his mother's hands, as he pulled back and stared at her, agape. Dwarrow men _never _entered the birthing room - unless, of course, he was himself the father. The presence of the father was expected at the birth, as it was he who had the honor of cutting the babe free and swaddling he or she in the cloths that had been prepared. It was the father who put the baby in the mother's arms; mother and father were both then expected to stay with their new charge, with each other, for however long it took the mother to recover, usually a few days. Such was custom, but only _ever _the father.

"Oh, he made a mighty roar, in order to make himself heard over my wailing. '_Stop your screeching, woman_!' he said," Dís leaned back herself and laughed softly at the memory and at the shocked look on her son's face. "Scared me right into silence, I have to admit, although that certainly didn't stop the pain of your imminent arrival. Then he plopped himself - armor, weapons, woolen coat and all on a stool next to me and grabbed my hand," the Princess dipped her head and dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. "'_Ríkin is gone to Mahal and nothing will change that_,' Thorin said, then. He was so harsh and his demeanor quite frightened me. But, your uncle had a heart of oak, too, _dashat_ - strong, and loyal, and proud. He sat in your father's place, because he knew that's what I needed - tradition be damned - and held my hand. He gave me _his _strength for that long night," Dís reached out and put her own slender hand on the top of Kíli's closest forearm. "He quite amazed the midwives, really, once they stopped their squawking. They said later, when Thorin was being most thoroughly scolded for his indiscretion, that they did not think you or I would have survived that birth. Yours was a hard birth, Kibil, and my spirit, my body, was weaker than it should have been.

"I no longer had your father when I needed him the most, but Mahal left me one strong enough to take his place where and when he could. It was Thorin who cut your cord, who swaddled you, who put you in my arms," no amount of steam could hide the shimmer of tears in her eyes, or the gentle illumination her sudden smile gave to her face. "I think that is, perhaps, a large reason why he always seemed to favor you. He took a father's bond with you, whereas Fíli's was with _Ríkin_."

Kíli was silent, unable to think of any response to his mother's revelation. In all his years with his uncle, Thorin had never said a word about his nephew's birth. His mind, unbidden, flashed back to the time just before the Battle of the Five Armies, when Thorin cupped his hand around the back of Kíli's head and pulled him forward to rest their foreheads together. They had smiled at each other, then, and Kíli had seen the depth of Thorin's love for him. It was the sort of gesture a father made with his son, one that was a rare but widely accepted admission of love, since dwarrow fathers rarely spoke their feelings out loud. It was the sort of affection a father showed to his son, before they both went out to battle and to face the very real possibility that they might never see each other again.

His whole life, Kíli had known no father, but his uncle. And he had never thought about it, had never analyzed it, but in the light of his mother's memory, the closeness he had always shared with Thorin suddenly made sense. It was Thorin, who had given him his first bow, who had patiently taught him how to shoot. It was Thorin who had sat back and indulgently allowed him to run amok, while Fíli had to keep his nose buried in the driest of dwarrow tomes. Kíli had never hesitated running to his uncle, as a dwarfling, to sit on his lap and to listen to stories. Oh, Fíli had never hesitated, either - but Fíli had always sat at Thorin's feet, his back propped up against his uncle's legs, or maybe on the leg of the chair. Fíli was, for the most part, instructed by Balin, but in Kíli's early stages, it was Thorin who taught him how to read, to write, and to add his numbers.

Thorin's attentiveness had waned as Kíli grew up - upon reflection, that was the way of all dwarrow fathers, to give their sons the opportunity to grow on their own and make risks, while still under the watchful eyes of a parent who could fish them out of whatever chaos they created. But, when it was time for Thorin to teach Fíli and Kíli both the art of anvil and hammer, Thorin did not protest when Kíli failed to show a proper inclination for the craft. He was hard – _always_ hard – on Fíli, but it was Kíli he allowed to apprentice to a jeweler. Not a negative word was ever said about the choice to pursue a more delicate craftsmanship, one that suited Kíli's nimble fingers far better than the forge. Unlike Fíli, Kíli had almost always been given his choice of paths to take through life; Thorin had, if anything, encouraged it, quite possibly because, as youngest-son, Kíli's fate was one far less predestined as his brother's. And freedom, he had been told sternly by Thorin from his youngest years, always came with choices that he had to learn to make "_with a steady head on your shoulders_".

Kíli could feel the corners of his eyes growing hot again with tears - tears that he was truthfully tired of shedding. But, to know that Thorin had brought him into the world and formed a father-bond with him because of it... And to know that now and to know that he had lived all those years under Thorin's watchful eye without once acknowledging or comprehending the depth of his uncle's love for him…it was enough to tear a new wound clear through his heart.

Dís watched as all of Kíli's thoughts flashed across his face and echoed soundlessly in his dark eyes. As her young king worked out his thoughts and emotions about what she had told him, she gently brushed his arm and waited for the storm within him to calm. Once she thought it was maybe safe to interject, she said as softly as she could:

"This is why you have been allowed the twelve months of _avelut_, without question. Thorin was to you what Ríkin never got to be to Fíli - a father, in so very many ways. Even in my grief, I have received letters from Balin, updates on your doings here. You might feel differently, _dashat_, but no one has begrudged you your year and a day of grieving. But, that is seven months past, Kíli."

"I've lost my brother - who protected me whole life and never left my side, not once," the young, burdened King of Erebor squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head fiercely; his voice wavered and his words were thick with emotions he could only express in angry spurts. "I've lost the very man who, you say, was my father in all ways except for siring me," as he spoke, Kíli unconsciously clenched his fists against the stone beneath them. "And I've lost….I lost…" his voice broke, unable to name Tauriel, even to his mother.

But, Dís knew anyway. It was no secret to her that her reckless, hard-headed, open-hearted youngest had stood at the cusp of giving his heart fully over to an elf-maid. And, truthfully, she could not find it in her heart to fault him for trying to grasp at a love he could call his own.

"You have lost much, _thanu men_, no one - not I - will argue that. But you are _not _the only one who has lost so deeply," Dís lifted her hand and gently moved a strand of hair that had stuck itself to Kíli's cheek when he had shaken his head in refusal. "Thorin showed me that so very long ago; he also showed me that Mahal will always leave you with what and who you truly need."

Dís stopped for a moment and watched with great compassion, her heart breaking anew, as Kíli's shoulders and upper chest heaved in an effort to hold back his sobs. Her hand now soothed the wrinkles in his forehead and brushed his damp hair away from his face - soft touches, comforting touches, healing touches she hoped.

"I did you wrong, Kíli, when I allowed my sorrow and despair to send me back to the comfort of Ered Luin. It was safe for me, a place where I could be left alone as I so chose. I should not have left you here by yourself - we have much in common now, _dashat_."

"I _have _missed you, mother. So very terribly," Kíli admitted in a voice that was barely above a whisper; Dís drifted her fingers through the long hair that framed his face and murmured soothingly. "I've felt all alone in this Lonely Mountain."

"And you have never been alone before," Dís sighed heavily, guilt rolling through her at the thought that she had left her only remaining child to face the challenges of grief and kingship all on his own. "Oh, what sort of mother have I been?" she asked, more to herself than to Kíli - but he answered anyway.

"A good one, _Khagun_," he finally lifted his head, his cheeks wet with what they both pretended was condensation, and reached up to grab his mother's hand. "Always."

"One that has been blind and foolish in her grief," she said wryly.

"So, we've both been fools," Kíli rolled his shoulders and tried to smile up at his mother. "Runs true in the blood as…" his voice faltered. "Fíli would have said."

Dís chuckled softly and let her son take her hand in both of his as he sat straighter, his chest still pressed to the stone.

"Frerin used to say that Thorin all the time. Fíli must have learned that saying from your uncle, then."

The two fell silent for a moment; they were both trying to get used to the names of their loved ones on their tongues again. As far as Kíli was concerned, saying his brother's name out loud almost physically _hurt _- he hadn't said Fíli's, Thorin's, _or _Tauriel's names out loud since their death. Just the very thought of doing so had always made him feel as if speaking their names out loud, in the past tense, would bring a wretched sense of finality to their loss.

He had indeed be correct in that assumption - his heart sank and he had to swallow a shout of grief that threatened to burst out of his chest at the very sound of his brother's name in the air, in his voice. His mouth felt sour, then dry and he couldn't stop the tears that fell into his all but non-existent beard.

"Tell me, Kibil - you did not speak their names or talk about them at all during your _**aninut**_ or your _**shiva**_, did you?" Dís asked gently as her hands were all but crushed in the desperate grip Kíli had on them.

Unable to speak, he just shook his head and a soft moan passed through his lips, which he had pressed sharply together.

"I should have done this a year ago, little raven," she murmured ever so gently, using the nickname she had given him as a dwarfling, because of his riotous array of dark hair and keen, bright eyes.

Still holding his hands, she scooted as best she could closer to the edge of the carved seat where Kíli shook and shivered in his sorrow. She had barely managed to settle her skirts again - her feet now hanging over the edge of the pool and all but brushing the top of the water - when Kíli made a desperate sort of sound and threw his arms around her waist. They were level enough that he could bury his face into her thigh, as he had done as a dwarfling and occasionally as an adolescent. Dís did not need to ask, to know that Kíli had tried to play his uncle's role - stoic, stubborn, emotionally repressed. In truth, it was a natural thing to do - to hold tightly onto the clearest role model in memory and to mimic what one knew best. But, Kíli had never been like Thorin, or as Fíli had learned to be - no, her youngest son had always worn his heart on his sleeve, had always chattered incessantly like a young raven of Erebor, had never quite learned how to keep his thoughts to himself. True, he learned to withhold verbal displays of affection - but, before grief stripped his heart to nothing more than blood and sinew, he would have never hesitated to honor a memory by speaking it out loud.

Kíli keened softly into the softly stirring steam around them and Dís cared not at all that her skirts were soaking through and her hair had gone limp all around her face. Nor did she care that her full-grown son was still naked, covered though he was by his position against the stone. Dís simply ran her fingers through his hair and cried softly with him. Kíli did not need to say anything at all, for her to know that he had not allowed himself to speak of his grief, or to show it, or to let it out since he had consigned his beloved uncle and brother to Mahal's eternal keep.

A year and a half's worth of tears dampened the wool of her skirt - which would probably be well ruined by the steam, the damp, and the drag of it across the rough-hewn floor. But, Dís ignored it all - in that sacred space, there were no titles, no expectations, no courtly or social expectations. There was simply a heart-broken son and his only remaining family - his mother, who grieved with him more deeply than he would ever know.

"They walk with you, Kibil," Dís' words hung like gentle wisps in the air between them, as she smoothed her hand over the curve of her son's proud head. "They always will. Mahal has shown me that death does not have the power to sever that bond."

She spoke as if she were talking more to herself than to Kíli, but it seemed as if the words helped. His sobs were still fierce, but they grew less frequent in the long, timeless minutes after her whispered promise.

Later, when Dís would look back on that time with Kíli, she would wonder if her mind was deceiving her. But, she remember dark forms in the steam, more dense than the air, but not enough to be mortal forms. And she could have sworn that the familiar hands of kings and princes now gone reached forth and lay like voiceless blessings on the shoulders of her youngest son. She would also remember the moment that Kíli's sobs finally stopped and when he finally lifted his tear-stained face from her skirts, his eyes swollen with grief, but finally clear.

She would remember that as the moment when Erebor finally took its first breath of hope.

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><p><strong>Reference<strong>

_**Cowberries**_ - a colloquial name for ligonberries. Since I live in the States (and the South, at that), I have never eaten or seen a ligonberry in the whole of my three decades. However...from what I can gather from research, it's rather like a cranberry in taste and appearance. Ish?

_**S**__**hulukadrân – **_technically means "wet-season"; spans from between January/February and March/April. Is considered the "Deep Winter" in the Northern homes of the Stiffbeards.

_**Reikikoriat**_ - sled dogs; think huskies.

_**Iklaladrân - **_ winter, basically. Is considered the season between October/November and January/February.

_**Vanha Isä**_ - means "Old Father". According to the MERPs website, this is the name that the Men have given Thulin. Which confirms what I had already suspected...the cultures of the Far North are indeed Finnish. Vanha Isä is definitely Finnish and translated immediately when I plugged it into a Finnish-English translator.

_**Haradwaith**_ - the far southern nation/region of Middle Earth.

_**Azsâlul'abad**_- Khuzdul name for the Lonely Mountain.

_**Kibil**_ - means "silver". I thought it would work well for Kíli's secret name, since "Kíli" can be easily made by just shuffling the "l" over and dropping the "b". I have this working theory that a lot of dwarrow true-and-outer names might work this way. It also makes sense to me that a father/mother would know this name and occasionally use it in private moments like this, since they'd be the ones to name their child both ways. And, well, I imagine a dwarf's One would know his name and he hers - it would be a very intimate, binding sort of thing and definitely appropriate in the context of a marriage.

_**Avelut**_ - I've read quite extensively on the Dwarven Scholar's notes about Khuzdul and it was based in a large part on ancient Hebrew. The dwarrow themselves, were said to be inspired by the Israelite's wanderings and exiles from Jerusalem. As a seminary student, I've totally fallen in love with this idea, so I'll be weaving some Jewish traditions/words in, here and there. I'm particularly fascinated by the rituals of Jewish grieving. _Avelut _is the final stage of the grieving process, which is only observed for a parent, and lasts 12 months.

_**Aninut **_- the day or two period of grieving immediately after the loss, during which the body is prepared for burial and the bereaved are allowed to their own privacy without guests or visitors. This is a time for the family alone.

_**Shiva**_ - the seven day period after the funeral, in which the bereaved can accept guests and visitors; however, guests are not allowed to initiate discussion and it is at the discretion of the bereaved on what they want to talk about, or whether or not they want to talk at all. This period also involves a meal of condolence is made, which usually involves eggs and bagels/bread (which are both considered symbols of life).


	5. More Questions Than Answers

**A/N:** _Many, many thanks to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed ASFHAS! The response to my humble tale has been nothing short of inspiring...I hope that, as the story unfolds, that it doesn't disappoint. Particular thanks to **cap red**, **Skywolf42, **and** Borys68**, who help me work out the details. Thanks and *hugs!* to **frozenangel1988**, **Annie-kins, Pint-sized She-Bear,** and **Amanda** as well. Ya'll keep me writing!_

_Just a side-note, I've gone back and made some minor edits. Nothing major, but my OCD kicked in. I've also figured out the dwarrow calendar (as explained by Dwarrow Scholar) and I've switched to that, since this is, after all, a dwarrow story._

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><p><em>"Some folk we never forget;<em>

_Some kind we never forgive."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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><p><strong>Adadnurt 'Afgargablâg 3rd <strong>

_(Wednesday May 20th)_

_**Erebor**_

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><p>The King of Erebor quickly discovered that letting go of his bottled grief and sharing it with his mother did not solve any particular problem. Kíli found himself sitting on his throne the next morning, feeling as out of place as ever before. Indeed, one might wonder what good speaking of the dead and crying for them had done. But, he felt more present in the matters of state than he had before; while his heart still hung in his chest like a chunk of broken steel, the young king was able to finally free a part of his mind from the all-consuming, subconscious business of sorrow and actually focus on what was going on around him.<p>

That morning, he had made a step - however small it was - toward an acceptance of his fate. His straight razor remained untouched by the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom; as quickly as his hair grew (as all dwarrow hair grew), he was quite certain that the doubting lords of the Iron Hills would see a difference in their King when they came searching for a reckoning six days hence. And a reckoning they would certainly seek, according to Dáin, who was speaking now:

"...There's dark mutterin's, _**thanu men**_. My old ears only hear whispers, but it's enough to know that there are enough voices wi' power an' wealth who would use the eastern interlock's collapse as sufficient cause to argue your abdication," the brilliantly-haired dwarf-lord shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the very mention of a mutiny against the throne of Erebor. ["_**My King**_"]

"And what of you, Lord Dáin?" Kíli focused hard on modulating his voice - calm, collected, deep - and schooled his expressive features - detached, focused, impassive.

The young king sat properly in his throne, his boots planted quite firmly beside one another on the jadeite floor beneath him. His arms rested straight on the arms of the cool granite throne, hands draped across the ends to reveal the intricately carved rings he wore - silver on both of his thumbs to represent himself, gold on his right middle finger in memory of Fíli, and a recovered mithril on his left middle finger in memory of Thorin. He was not dressed as regally as he would have been for a truly formal court, but his jerkin was still quite fit for a king. It was made out of a well-dyed wool that was a shade or two brighter than the blue Thorin had usually worn. Like Kíli's formal robe, the jerkin was edged with gold trim woven with geometric knot-work that mimicked his own personal sigil. His under-tunic was a simple, dark gray linen. Both tunic and jerkin were bound tightly at his waist with the same studded, sturdy leather belt he had worn as a member of Thorin's Company. Kíli's hair was neatly combed and bound in its usual way, pulled away from his face with a leather clasp. The Crown of Erebor - gold, ancient mithril and smoky obsidian - glinted across his brow and the King Under the Mountain tried not to fidget uncomfortably beneath its weight.

He had glanced at his reflection many times in the polished columns and crystal edifices of his regal halls; Kíli was well aware of how he looked, with the raven's wings sweeping across his brow. He thought of one such glimpse just mere hours before, when he had allowed Dís the honor of placing the crown on his head. His mother's name for him, the whole of his life, was "little raven". Perhaps, he was born for the crown, after all.

Kíli made every effort to keep his shoulders back and his broad chest pushed out, as if he were in a seated version of military attention. As if, perhaps, he actually believed that he had every right to sit in his uncle's throne, as if he was completely assured of himself.

It all felt like a lie, but Balin had long insisted that if one pretended long enough, a lie could become reality. Kíli sincerely hoped that this was true, else he would play quite the fool. But, Balin's council had never been in error before, so the young thane had decided that there was no harm in trying to put his best boot forward.

It seemed to be having a mostly positive effect, from what he could gather in the faces before him. Bofur hadn't stopped squinting up at him thoughtfully, sometimes nodding gently as if to himself, when Kíli made a particular move with his hands or asked a certain question. Ori - who he couldn't quite see, since the mousy Chronicler was to his left and only in his peripheral vision - was scratching away madly in his enormous tome of blank pages, even when nothing was being said. Which surely meant that he was sketching yet another portrait, although Kíli tried not to flatter himself and assume that Ori's quill-scritches were because of him. And Dáin had drawn his shoulders back and kept them there, proud and stout, when he had met Kíli's schooled and careful gaze from upon the Mountain's legendary throne.

Although, Dáin had not apparently pulled his shoulders or his spine to his full height until now. At Kíli's question, a fierceness flashed through Dáin's bright eyes and he puffed himself out in a subconscious display of unquestionable resolution. The strike of metal against metal rang through the open chamber, as the Lord of the Iron Hills smacked his gloved fist proudly into his chest-plate.

"I stand with my King, Your Majesty. As do all in my household," Dáin's beard all but quivered with the force of his sincerity. "You need never doubt that, sire."

"We don't," Kíli dipped his head graciously toward Dáin and for a moment, the two smiled at each other (although, the younger dwarf tried his best to keep his as understated and kingly as possible). "But, the loyalty of Dáin may well be mute, if we cannot resolve the issue of the eastern interlock. A thane who cannot find the means to build his own kingdom can be rightfully called into question."

The statement might have seemed self-effacing, but Kíli saw Balin nodding his snowy head in approval in the periphery of his right eye. The movement was slight, circumspect to be sure, but it bolstered Kíli's confidence enough for him to continue calmly:

"You bring more masons to us, Lord Dáin?"

"I do," Dáin's wild hair looked even more feral as he nodded his head vigorously. "Fourscore journeymen, ten apprentices, and one master."

"And what of the master's credentials?"

Dáin was quite unsuccessful in disguising a sudden grimace. There was a pause, then a short puff of resignation.

"He is just turned 85, sire, and..." Dáin took a deep breath and all but mumbled: "He passed his Master's Trial only a moon ago."

Kíli resisted the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his long nose. He did squint down at Dáin and tapped the fingers of his right hand once, twice, against the runes of protection and power carved into the stone beneath his sleeve. It wasn't Dáin's fault, however, that one utterly inexperienced master was all that he could offer to Erebor's reconstruction.

"We would speak to this Master of the Iron Hills," Kíli tapped his fingers again; to his surprise, Dáin looked rather startled by the request. "He is waiting in the Summoning Room, is he not?" one dark eyebrow arched toward the carved wing resting just above it.

"He...he is, Your Majesty," Dáin's chest puffed in and then out, as if he was at a loss for what to say; after a few seconds, he sighed heavily and threw his hands mildly up in the air beside him. "He is deaf and mute, Your Majesty. An' I fear he knows nothin' of the elegancies of court."

"Neither do you, if you flap your hands before your king," Kíli reprimanded gently, but there was enough of a smile about his lips for Dáin to relax after a moment of wide-eyed dismay.

"My apologies,_ thanu men_," Dáin bowed respectfully and clenched his hands at his side - not in defiance, but in an effort to remind himself to keep his frustration reigned in.

"This is, however, an informal gathering, though it is held in our throne room and recorded for Memory," Kíli finally lifted his right hand and and rubbed it across his scruff; it was torture, sitting so still for so long. "Surely, your Master knows_** iglishmêk**_?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," the dwarf-lord confirmed immediately.

"Then we see no issue in requesting his presence," Kíli waved his hand dismissively and then set it back down across the arm-rest. "As we have already said, this is a mostly informal court, among kin. We will speak to him in_ iglishmêk_ and we will disregard any breach of etiquette that the Master may make, for this one time."

Dáin bowed again, Kíli's implied command understood - if the sole master mason of the Iron Hills was going to participate in the reconstruction of Erebor, then his presence in formal court, however infrequent, would be required. The intricacies of court was something the poor mason would have to learn, and quickly, if he was not to make a fool of himself, Dáin, or his King in the Council of Words planned for the first day of _**Gargbuzrâmrâg**_, which was less than a week away. ["_Deep Ale Fest"_]

As the guards at the entrance to the throne room reached up and heaved the tall iron doors open, Kíli propped his elbows more firmly on his armrests and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. In a formal court, he would not use _iglishmêk_ himself - that would be Balin's duty. But, the young king meant to extend courtesy and respect to Dáin's master mason and there would be no harm done in using _iglishmêk _himself for this first meeting. As it was, Kíli had always quite liked the hand-language of his kin, and had frequently held whole conversations with Fíli over the years without ever once uttering a single word. He had not used _iglishmêk_ since Fíli's death, either, and those closest to him would know that their king hadn't spoken with his quick, nimble fingers in almost two years. They would mark his effort and know the cost it made him. They would also recognize the subtle message he was trying to get across – that he had accepted, or was at least trying _to_ accept, that he was King Under the Mountain.

A diminutive form trotted obediently down the long, narrow walkway, a little too fast for the dignity required of meeting a king. But, the round face that politely refrained from looking up him was quite earnest and once the master had drawn abreast of Dáin, he bowed appropriately, if clumsily.

"Please tell the young Master that he may look at us," Kíli unclasped his hands and let them hang loosely above his lap, as he addressed Dáin. "We would speak with him ourselves."

"Yes, Your Majesty," his uncle's cousin nodded and after a few brief flickers of his fingers, the master mason turned wide gray eyes up at his king.

"_You honor us with your presence, Master Mason_," Kíli's hands wove his words in front of him and he couldn't help a brief smile at the look of awe, respect, and appreciation that brightened the surprisingly beard-less face below him. "_Welcome to Erebor. Hail and well met. Please, give us your name, so that we may address you accordingly._"

"_I am Alf, son of Althjof, of Ered Luin, Your Majesty,_" the young master mason answered back, slowly at first, but as he eyed Kíli carefully for any sign of displeasure - and found none - his fingers flew faster. "_It is indeed my own honor to even walk the halls of mighty Erebor and to speak with the King Under the Mountain._"

Kíli dipped his head regally at Alf with a faint smile of approval that the sharp-eyed mason caught. The young dwarf was clearly shy and most unused to speaking to those far above his own station, but his shoulders straightened back under the kindness of Kíli's approval.

"_Tell us, Master Alf, have you studied the prints and plans of Erebor_?" Kíli suspected he knew the answer - Dáin was a thorough man, for all his bluster and bellowing.

"_Yes, sire,_" Alf signed back immediately.

"_Have you seen or studied the notes of the late Masters, Skirvir and Virvir_?"

"_I have_," Alf nodded his head as he signed and only after he let his hands drop did he realize his mistake and added a belated (and bemused), "_Sire._"

"_Do you know what went wrong in the eastern interlock?_" Kíli watched Alf carefully for his response.

The mason - who was little, even for a dwarf - did not answer immediately. The King did not push him; Alf would answer in time and hurrying him for an answer would simply frighten the skittish young man. This was also a question of the greatest importance, which would determine whether or not Kíli would truly have to go back into Dale and seek the help of the cantankerous Kivi Journeyman.

Dáin had come to Erebor after the cave-in, fully prepared to provide what help he could to his new king. But, because of all the funeral arrangements, ceremonies, and condolences, Dáin hadn't had an opportunity to tell Kíli much of anything about the masons that he had brought from the Iron Hills. For a few moments, at least, Kíli had hoped that he wouldn't have to take Bard up on his advice, but as Alf answered, he realized that he may have little other choice.

"_I must regretfully admit, sire, that I do not know what went wrong. My review of the materials I have been given, do not offer a ready explanation. I am an experienced mason, but Masters Skirvir and Virvir had almost a hundred years more of master-craft than I can claim,_" Alf paused and his eyes searched Kíli's face nervously for any sign of anger or disappointment.

Kíli _was_ disappointed, but he didn't want to undermine Alf's confidence.

"_Please speak freely, Master Alf. You are wise to tell us your limitations so honestly._"

The dwarf-mason's chest - which was covered in a neat, if rather weathered, leather workman's apron - rose and fell as if in deep relief. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, Alf continued.

"_I can find no fault in the Masters' plans,_" Alf's face was earnest, as he continued speaking to his King in the only way they could. "_I have also taken the liberty to inspect what I could of the eastern interlock and its rubble. I do not possess the skill necessary to determine what went wrong and how to avoid a collapse from happening again, when we rebuild._"

"_Is it possible that the eastern interlock could be rebuilt without the fear of another collapse_?"

"_Yes, sire, that is possible. But it is not well-advised,_" Alf's hands were steady and his eye-contact firm; he was certain in his reply. "_Without knowing what went wrong the first time, it would be foolish to rebuild again. I fear..._" he paused, his fingers faltering.

"_What does your intuition tell you, Master?_" Kíli leaned forward slightly, intent on watching Alf's small hands for his answer.

"_I fear, sire, that the fault may not have lain with Masters Skivir or Virvir...nor with the dragon, Smaug_," Alf's eyes were wide and something like uncertainty tinged his gaze, but he continued to sign to Kíli, determined to obey his King's command. "_I fear that the fault may lay with the interlock's original creators._"

"Nonsense!" Dwalin huffed, but Kíli threw up his hand and shot his personal bodyguard and long-time protector a harsh look.

"It was once said that reclaiming this mountain was 'nonsense'," the young King pulled his shoulders back until they were resting, rigid and proud, against the back of his throne. "Yet, look at where we sit," he spread his hands open wide, inviting the gazes around him to take in - yet again - the incredible majesty of their ancestral home. "There is not a being in Middle Earth, Captain, that does not make wrong judgments."

Kíli's duly appointed Captain of the Guard bowed his head respectfully in acknowledgment of the point so made. For himself, the younger dwarf heaved an internal sigh and stared thoughtfully off into the distance, just beyond Alf's narrow right shoulder.

_Perhaps if we hadn't assumed the infallibility of dwarven skill, much would be different, _he thought to himself, the memory of Fíli's lifeless body lying broken amid bloodied stones and sullied snow. _Perhaps Bard has a point - some humility might do us well._

The Stiffbeard dwarrow-maid's brilliant halo of hair and piercing eyes came to mind, then. There was no confusing the matter - she was a fire and a tempest, and an unbending knee. Her words had cut deep - "_Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further. But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I refused to consider your request through yon Master Dwarf."_

She had defied him, had put her hands upon him (not that Kíli had much minded, since royal boundaries were not exactly something he enjoyed, being a fairly tactile individual himself), and had treated him as if the crown he now wore on his head was nothing more than a woven braid of posies. Her refusal to help Erebor confused him, as Kíli had never encountered such a lack of loyalty from another dwarf.

Then again...Thorin had called for the Seven Houses to meet at Ered Luin and all to a one had refused to contribute troops to the retaking of Erebor. Even Dáin had initially refused; Thorin had, however, been frustrated, but not bitter. He had, instead, made the best of what he had - not the best nor brightest, Balin had pointed out that fateful night at Bag End - and had welcomed Dáin's belated arrival with gratitude, not anger. For the first time, Kíli wondered who of the Eastern lords had answered Thorin's call and who had stood before his uncle on behalf of the Stiffbeards. No doubt, it was a man like Jarvi, but the cheerful smile on Kivi's face before she realized that Kíli was not a fellow Frost Dwarf swam into focus. Had it been one like her? A rare dwarrow-dam, full of passion and pride?

What was it that the master mason had said? "_You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself._" Kíli stroked his chin and turned those Northern words over in his mind for a long moment, before he finally focused on Alf again.

The throne room had gone still and silent. Kíli could feel the tips of his ears (so conveniently hidden beneath the waves of his hair) turn red in embarrassment. He hadn't meant to drift into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation.

"_Master Alf, thank you for your council and for your wise accounting of your skills. You will serve our Kingdom well..._" Kíli paused for dramatic effect and held Alf's eyes meaningfully for several long seconds. "_But, we must ask one last question, before releasing you to return to your own valuable time: could you work without conflict with another master mason?_"

"_Assuredly, sire. It would be my great honor and pleasure,_" Alf replied instantly, eagerly.

Kíli couldn't help a dry smile as he added the all-important punchline:

"_Even a daughter of Thulin? A master mason of __**Gabilzahar**_?"

Alf's gray eyes grew wide, until they seemed to dominate the totality of his expression. For a moment, the little mason just quivered in his very boots and Kíli began to worry that he had given the master dwarf enough of a shock to induce a failure of the heart.

Alf's answer, however, was everything Kíli had hoped for and none of what he had expected.

"_A true master mason? A Mestari of the Stiffbeards? Sire, a Stone Master of the North would be a highest honor to Erebor. I would willingly rank myself as a mere apprentice again, for the opportunity to work under the chisel and mallet of a Stiffbeard mason._"

Well. That settled that. Almost, anyway - Kíli wasn't quite sure Alf comprehended the full details of what he was getting so excited over.

"_Even if this master were a woman? A maid of your own age?_" Kíli was guessing here, but based on the lines on Kivi's face and the lack of others, he guessed her to be a contemporary of himself or Alf.

"_If she is a Mestari of Gabilzahar, it matters not,_" Alf waved a dismissive hand between his words. "_Male or female, it makes no difference. She would have no parallel in the West, Sire._"

* * *

><p>"You're not thinkin' o' askin' that thrice-damned shrew again?" Bofur just gaped stupidly at Kíli from across the length of the narrow Council Room.<p>

"Third time's the charm?" Kíli shrugged, with some of his old cheek rising to the fore.

"Don't make jest, Your Majesty!" Bofur's mustache trembled indignantly. "I dare say we can make due wi' Master Alf!"

"Except no one's askin' ya' fer ya' say," Dwalin drawled laconically from his post by the fire.

The enormous (for a dwarf) warrior had one thick arm resting above the other, as his chest was entirely too wide to cross them as perhaps Ori or Nori could. One foot was draped casually over the other, as Dwalin rested the bulk of his weight on one leg and against the corner of the carved fireplace mantle. The older dwarf fixed Bofur with a warning gaze, which the engineer respected, but not without a put-upon little huff into his mustache.

"An', dinna' kin if ya' noticed," Dwalin continued, his eyes hard fixed on the fuming Bofur. "But, I dare say that Master Alf looks as if one good push o' the wind would send 'im tumblin' feet o'er head into the nearest ravine."

"Well," Bofur snorted and stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. "One certainly couldn't say that 'bout that damned dwarf-maid. Lass is so prickly, she coulda' chased Smaug outta' here just by screechin' at 'im."

"What is all this talk of a dwarrow-maid?" Dís had quietly entered the Council Room while Dwalin had fussed at Bofur.

Upon realizing her presence, every male in the room (which accounted for the whole room) either stood up or stood up straighter. Kíli quickly grabbed his chair at the head of the Council Table, which he wasn't using, and beckoned for his mother to take her seat among them. Dís did so, her movements through the gathering of men with more grace and fluidity than one might have otherwise expected from a dwarrow-dam. Only after she had settled her skirts about her - today, a cheerful robin's egg blue - did she look expectantly toward Bofur, who blushed clear to the tips of his fuzzy ushanka.

"Ah...well...ah…" Bofur stuttered, shocked not only to be speaking to the sole Princess of Erebor (a long-time and well-known recluse among the Blue Mountain dwarves), but to be in the presence of a female dwarf in general.

Dís just smiled brightly at Bofur and shook her head; her dark eyes, so much like her elder brother's, slid over toward her son. She lifted a thick, but gently groomed, eyebrow at Kíli and teasingly demanded:

"There's a dwarrow-maid?"

Kíli immediately flushed a bright red and even he stammered in the wake of his mother's words.

"Ah...uh...n-not quite like that, _Khagun_," he sputtered, thankful to be only in the company of those who had known him since his dwarfling days.

"Though, she is a right beauty," Ori piped up without thinking; when every single set of eyes in the room turned to him; the gentle scribe blushed as well and immediately found something quite fascinating about the stone beneath his feet.

"Do tell, Master Ori," Dís continued to smile brightly and propped her chin on the palm of her hand, as she leaned against the carved rests of Kíli's oaken chair.

Conflicted, Ori glanced up at Kíli, who was darkly mouthing the words _"don't you dare_" at him. The scribe then glanced at Dís, who was as winsome as any fresh-faced dwarrow-maid at that moment, and Ori gulped. He was helpless against Dís' considerable charms and he tried not to look at Kíli as he answered her prompting slowly.

"Oh, aye, Your Highness," he didn't dare speak above a whisper, as if that would somehow spare him from Kíli's indignation. "A right beauty she is. Like a sunset in winter," he nodded, quite pleased with his imagery. "Brilliant, flaming hair, an' lots o' it! An' the brightest blue eyes, rather like F-" Ori stopped himself immediately and lost his nerve.

He had been about to say "like Fíli's" and his heart pounded in his chest. What a cruel thing to say to the heir apparent's grieving mother.

"L-like f-frost on the River Runnin'," Ori cleared his throat and continued bravely, not daring now to look at anyone in the room, but still quite determined to recover from his inexcusable slip of the tongue. "When the afternoon sun hits it."

"So, like Fíli's," Dís murmured softly; startled, Ori snapped his gaze up to hers and was perplexed to see her still smiling.

Although, on second glance, it was a smile tinged with sadness. Ori dipped his head again, unable to voice his apology, but hoping the Princess would forgive him all the say.

"It is quite fine to speak the names of our dead," Dís continued a little louder, as if sensing Ori's thoughts. "And to compare the eyes of a dwarrow-maid to Prince Fíli's is quite certainly the highest of compliments."

Kíli, for his part, swallowed thickly and tried not to think that Ori was right in his comparison. Kivi did indeed have eyes as brightest blue like Fíli's - although, perhaps, hers were better compared to Thorin's, as stormy as he had seen them.

"And who is such a lass, to remind you of a friend and prince so dear?" Dís titled her head, eyes and mouth still gentle, but still a little sad.

Ori opened his mouth to answer, but Bofur's grumbling beat him to it.

"_Yi_', I assure ya', that's where the resemblance stops. An ill-tempered creature, that one."

"Oy!" Ori startled himself by stopping his foot; he paused for a moment, as if to process that yes, he had really had just yelled at Bofur, but then plowed ahead at full steam. "Would you stop that? Why don't you just admit that your dislike o' Master Kivi 'as nothin' to do wi' the King, or Erebor, or none o' it!"

"You shut yer mouth!" Bofur jabbed a thick-tipped finger at Ori as if it were the sharp end of a sword.

The little scribe was having none of it, however. He fairly shook in anger and Kíli watched, wide-eyed, as Ori lost his temper for the first time in memory.

"I was mad wi' her the day we left Dol Amroth!" despite his warning, Bofur seemed unable to disengage from the argument brewing between him and Ori.

"For a day! A week, perhaps!" Ori threw his hands up and his face was rapidly turning a rather interesting mix of white and red. "But, you didn't 'ave an ax to grind with 'er, 'til the eastern interlock collapsed!"

"She coulda' helped us! She coulda' kept the interlock from collapsin' in the first place!" Bofur's roar made even Dwalin stand up straight and lean away from the engineer's wrath. "This whole...this whole…" Bofur fumbled over his words and everyone watched in shock as tears began to well up in the stout-hearted dwarf's dark eyes. "This whole mess coulda' been stopped! We wouldn't 'ave to bury 'alf o' Durin's masons and stone-workers, if she 'ad been willin' to 'elp us. Instead, she's out there," his voice finally broke, as he threw an arm wide and waved a hand in the vague direction of Dale. "While we...while…"

It would appear that Bofur couldn't speak any further. He just stood there, tears leaving thick, glistening streaks that disappeared into his mustache, his arm outstretched, his body taut, his haunted eyes fixed angrily at Ori.

"Just say it, Bofur," Bombur had hauled himself up out of his seat and across the floor to put a meaty hand on his brother's outstretched wrist.

Gently, the robust head cook of Erebor pulled Bofur's arm down toward his side. The engineer never looked away from Ori, though, never stopped trembling in his grief and anger.

"She's out there, 'elpin' Men," he finally hissed through his tears, seemingly spurred on by Bombur's heavy hand on his shoulder. "While we bury more o' our kin, some o' our best. While -" Bofur made a choking sort of sound in his throat, but Bombur murmured something to him in a low voice and the words tumbled out in rush. "While I buried Han.'

Ori looked puzzled for a moment, but then an awful realization dawned across his face, as several facts clicked into place.

"Han? H-Hanar?" he stammered. "The toymaker?"

Bofur just nodded

"What was a toymaker doing in the interlock?" Balin looked up from the respectful attention that he'd been giving to his knees; he paused to consider his words and added more gently: "Or, was he in one of the upper levels that collapsed as well?"

"He had come down to the construction that day, for a wee bit," Bofur's throat moved slowly as he closed his eyes and swallowed what very well may have been a sob. "He was bringin' me dinner."

"Were you friends?" Kíli cautiously slid his voice into the conversation at hand; in truth, the young King had no clue about had been going on between Ori and Bofur, but something like understanding was beginning to dawn on him.

Bofur's whole body jerked and the muscles popped in and out of his jaw several times, before he dragged his eyes over toward his king. He couldn't quite look Kíli in the eye, though, and it looked as if it took every ounce of internal strength he had to faintly whisper to a spot in the center of Kíli's chest:

"Much more than 'friends', Your...Majesty."

Kíli was shocked, but not scandalized. With a ratio quite skewed in the favor of Durin's sons to Durin's daughters, it was not so uncommon a thing for a male dwarf to find his One in another of his own gender. It was a quiet thing, though - not necessarily because there was any social taboo on the matter, but because it was such an ordinary occurrence. The fuss and focus was made over male-and-female unions, since they were themselves so much rarer. But, for all their appearances to the outside world, the dwarrow were a deeply passionate race, full of affection and the drive to share it with one another. Men and women, or men and men, it didn't matter.

Kíli just hadn't ever realized that Bofur had left his One behind in Ered Luin when he joined the Company. Then again, Kíli hadn't really known the affable engineer before their meeting at Bag End. Bofur had never mentioned Hanar's name - or nickname - once, however, in all their travels, in all their time together. That, as well, was not so unusual.

Dwarrow did not make much to do about their relationships with one another. And dwarrow friendships were often so long-lasting and intimate (in the most platonic sense of the word), that it could be near impossible to distinguish a close friendship from a marriage between dwarrow men. It was simply something that unfurled quietly in its own time and the dwarrow, as a whole, where quite happy with that. After all, what was their own business, was indeed their own business.

Bofur's response toward Kivi from the other day now made much more sense to Kíli. He had been so busy that he hadn't had any time to pull Bofur aside and to get to the bottom of the issue. But, an "issue" Kíli had suspected, as Bofur was usually the most easy-going and pleasant of all the Company, barring Ori, and Fíli when he had been alive.

"We have lost too much, sire," Bofur had finally found his voice again and Kíli focused again just in time to see the engineer rubbing a sleeve roughly across his face. "Why must we grovel for the aid of a lass who doesnna' wanna' give it?"

"Well, I wasn't intending on groveling -" Kíli began, but Bofur cut him off.

"But, you _are,_ even if that's not your intent," the older dwarf finally looked his king in the eye, although his face was still hot and wet with tears. "We keep comin' back around and back again over this master mason business. We need one, aye, I don't deny that an' I think I can say that as Chief Engineer, I know that fact better than anyone else in this room," Bofur's voice grew stronger as he brought his emotions under better control. "But, why must we chase after a woman who doesn't even call us kin? I say leave 'er to rebuild Dale's walls and may _**Durin's Bane**_ 'ave 'er."

There was a long silence at that, until Dís gently interjected:

"I do insist - who is this lass that so troubles the proud sons of Durin?"

"Kivi Journeyman," Kíli finally answered, his words dragging past his lips reluctantly. "And according to Master Bard, who introduced us to her, Master Kivi troubles us because we are proud."

"Ooh," Balin huffed into his snowy-white beard. "I would have loved to have been a mouse in the corner for that conversation."

Kíli shot his loyal and level-headed adviser a dour look. Balin was forever - for as long as Kíli had known him - grumbling about Durin's pride as if he were a smaller version of Gandalf.

"Is this lovely lass a Firebeard, then?" Dís frowned ever so slightly, as she thought of the Longbeard's irascible cousins, who were more than well known for their scarlet hair and flaming tempers.

"She is not a dwarf of the West," Kíli shook his head, his nose brushing against his shifting hair. "Master Kivi is a daughter of Thulin, a Stiffbeard."

Dís' eyebrows began to knit over her eyes as she considered her son's news. All eyes fixated on her as she gazed into the fire for a moment and unconsciously nibbled her bottom lip.

"How_ odd_," the Princess murmured thoughtfully, with a sidelong frown toward the wide-eyed Ori. "You said something about Dol Amroth?" Dís rapidly put two-and-two together. "Is that where you first met her, Master Ori?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the scribe nodded his head meekly. "It was while Bofur an' I were on the King's mission to recruit more dwarrow masons for the reconstruction. We first heard rumors of her when we were traveling through the villages of the Brown Lands. That lead us to Minas Tirith and their praise of her there lead us to Dol Amroth."

"And now she lives in Dale?" Dís pressed.

"Yes ma'am," Ori nodded dutifully, while keeping his gaze carefully averted from Bofur.

"A fascinating lass," Kíli's mother tapped a bejeweled and painted finger against her lips. "A dwarrow-maid who also claims the title of a master mason, traveling alone? This in and of itself would be quite curious, but a Stiffbeard as well? They haven't been seen in the West since the great defeat of Azanulbizar and most rarely before even that."

"She doesn't travel alone," Ori jumped in as Dís took a breath and a pause; he then realized his rudeness and stammered: "M-ma'am."

"A company, then?" Dís' eyebrows rose higher.

"She was accompanied by a man named 'Jarvi', the other day," Kíli, too, was intrigued and he leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. "Her cousin," he frowned slightly, choosing not to mention Jarvi's curious mix of dwarven and Mannish features. "I didn't know that she had other companions."

"Just a few more," Ori explained slowly, not quite sure what his information would mean to the King and the Princess. "There is the Stiffbeard smith, Master Seppä, who has traveled with her. Also, Katrikki, the Ice Elf, and Etsijä, a Man of the Fodorwaith."

"And the two dwarflings," Kíli added; Ori nodded.

"Aye, Master Kivi's niece and nephew."

"Two dwarflings, three Stiffbeards – two masters of their craft – an elf, and a Man," Dís titled her head prettily, but her gaze was quite intense as she looked toward her son. "A curious party, indeed."

Kíli frowned thoughtfully at his mother and then toward the fire. He, too, chewed his bottom lip for a moment as he considered this additional revelation about the proud-hearted Kivi Journeyman.

_They are either running from something, or to something,_ he squinted suspiciously beyond the jumping flames of the Council Room's crackling fire.

"You say, Master Ori, that Master Kivi moved to Dale after refusing the King's offer in Dol Amroth?" Dís dug a little further for clarification, her eyes as deep and distant as her son's.

"Y-yes ma'am," Ori answered sheepishly; even he, as mild-mannered as he was usually, was offended by Kivi's blatant gall and disrespect.

Unlike Bofur, however, Ori had an almost compulsive need to understand the motivations of others. What perplexed him the most, was not Kivi's refusal, but was that he could figure out no logical explanation for why she was acting the way she was toward the Line of Durin. He said as much to Dís, haltingly, certain that such a confession was necessary to move the conversation along a little further.

Ori did not believe that beings - even hard-headed dwarves - acted without some true reason. At least, those beings who were not, at their deepest depths, corrupted or evil. There had to be an explanation for Kivi's behavior, surely, since Ori didn't think she was either corrupted or evil. Just...broken somehow, someway, as Thorin had been.

"I will admit that I know very little about the Stiffbeards, but Frerin and Thorin came home with stories of their great feats in the War of the Dwarves and Orcs," Dís spoke to the fire, her voice and memory taken to ages long past. "Frerin was sent home once during the War, to recover from a severe wound to his shoulder. Thorin could not be spared, so Frerin was accompanied by a Stiffbeard he had befriended, an engineer and military leader named Vasara. He frequently referred to Vasara by his title, 'Eldest Brother', or…" Dís paused a moment, to remember the foreign words and their pronunciation. "'_**Vanhin Veli**_'," the words came awkwardly from her tongue, but she continued without further pause.

"Vasara did not speak much, but he had a good and cheerful spirit. He held his friendship with Frenir in high regard and told me once that he quite respected the Line of Durin. He was proud to give us aid and to travel from the safety of his homeland to help us reclaim ours. He had a saying that has always stuck with me -"

"'You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself,'" Kíli interrupted, the words tumbling from his mouth instinctively.

Color tinged the apples of his cheeks, though, when he realized that he had cut off his mother and he glanced over at her with an apology poised on his tongue. Dís, however, was now looking at him with something like amazement and if she was offended by her son's disrespect, she didn't show it.

"How do you know that?" she all but gasped.

"I met Master Kivi in Dale the other day," Kíli grimaced - his impromptu trips to Dale were something he preferred to keep to himself when possible. "With Bofur," he glanced over at the chief engineer, whose face was still splotchy with the fury of his previous emotions. "We, ah…" the young king sighed deeply and squared his shoulders defensively as he sat up on his stool. "We exchanged some rather heated words, Master Kivi and I. Toward the end of our conversation, she uttered that very saying and then I called her a hypocrite," Kíli turned his head up toward the mountain above them, as if seeking divine intervention. "That was not a conversation that ended well by any means."

"She met you and yet still refused to help Erebor?" Dís seemed even more shocked by that, than by the fact that her son had engaged in a verbal altercation with said mason.

"I do not think I was what she was expecting," the edges of Kíli's lips twisted a wry sort of half-smile and he glanced down at his hands, which hung casually between his knees. "Her cousin thought I was a Stiffbeard myself and greeted me accordingly. I think she thought the same as well, but Master Jarvi beat her to it."

Kíli thought back to the look on Kivi's face, when she had first seen him, before she knew that he was a Longbeard, much less King Under the Mountain. That, truly, was Kíli's first impression of her - a wide smile, dimpled cheeks, and sparkling eyes. She had seemed surprised, but hopeful, even excited. His brow furrowed in a shocking revelation, as he pictured her face and body posture in those first, fleeting moments - it was if she had recognized him. Except, as someone else, someone who was most certainly not the King of Durin's House.

"I think she expected me to be someone else," Kíli admitted, before his mother could interject. "Starting off a conversation off a shock and a disappointment would certainly make anyone reluctant to put forth their best selves."

Bofur grunted.

"I don't think she 'as a better self."

"Master Bard says she does," Kíli's broad shoulders rolled beneath his finely-spun tunic.

"I still don't understand how she can give her loyalty so willingly to a Man and not to you," Bofur continued to object.

"She said she didn't trust me and was not yet ready to do so," Kíli pushed a sigh through his teeth and shifted in his seat. "I cannot fault her for that, really."

"The lack of loyalty, though," Dís mused softly with a shake of her dark head. "Vasara, from my memory of him and Frerin's stories of him, was just as stubborn and proud as this Master Kivi seems to be. But, he came willingly to our aid and by all accounts, the Stiffbeard chief sent his best and brightest to us without qualm. That is not to say, though, that they acquiesce to our every beck and call. After all, they did not represent the House of Thulin when Thorin called all Seven Lords to Ered Luin -"

"I thought he said that all had come," Kíli remembered well every event that had transpired on his uncle's fateful quest to Erebor; his eyes narrowed. "Was that not so?"

"I think, perhaps, in Thorin's mind, all were indeed represented," Dís titled her head; the beads in her hair clinked together softly as she moved to sit up straight against the back of the Elvin-carved chair. "But, my memory of that day has never sat well with me. Thorin asked for my council and for my presence at his side during the talks among the Houses. The Stiffbeard chief was not there - although, Lord Synkkä of the Ironfists said that he represented both the Houses of Thulin and **Sindri**. He claimed that the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists had joined their Houses by marriage and so he came in representation of both."

"A most unexpected claim," Balin's white beard quivered against his brick-red vest as he spoke; the elder dwarf's expression was a mixture of concern and suspicion. "When did this Lord Synkkä claim the marriage had taken place?"

"He did not say and no one asked," Dís reached up with one hand and absently fingered the tear-drop shaped sapphire that hung below her breasts on a long, finely crafted golden chain. "I found his claim curious as well. But, we were not there to unravel the secrets of Stiffbeards or Ironfists, so Lord Synkkä's news was quite lost to thought by the end of that eve."

"I find it quite hard to believe that the Stiffbeards would marry one o' their daughters to an Ironfist," Balin clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "I remember the sons of Thulin from the War quite well myself. They were a just an' honorable folk, secretive for sure, but some of the stoutest hearts to join us from the East. They were not at all like the Ironfists and I find it hard to think that they would have changed much in just a few hundred years."

"The Ironfists were a common focus of derision in those days, too," Dwalin was back to leaning against the mantle and he met his brother's gaze from across the rather narrow width of the room. "We complain quite often about the Firebeards, but they are quarrelsome _dwarflings_ compared to the Ironfists of the East."

"Didn't the Ironfists once wage war against us?" the young King spoke to his hands.

He was growing a bit impatient with the length of the conversation at hand; he had pulled out his old hunting knife and a block of wood that he had been whittling down. It was something he had done his whole life, since he had never enjoyed having idle hands.

"So, you _do_ listen to your lessons," Balin chuckled softly; Kíli looked over at his adviser with a frown, but the smile on his elder's face told him that Balin was only speaking in jest.

Mostly. Kíli had become quite infamous as of late for his seeming inability to pay attention to Balin's rambling lessons about dwarrow customs, histories, and laws. It didn't help that he'd _always_ been that way - Balin was only just now learning the challenges of Kíli's child-hood tutors.

"But, yes, Your Majesty," that wise old head nodded briskly. "Long ago, before the orcs took over Gundabad, the Ironfists got it into their heads to lay claim to the holy mountain. They succeeded for several hundred years, in fact. Until, that is, Durin II kicked 'em out with a mighty army from Khazad-dûm."

"The Ironfists have held a grudge against the Line of Durin since then," Dori finally joined the conversation, from his quiet seat to the right of Dwalin.

"Filthy gully dwarves," Glóin grumbled in agreement from his stance in front of the Council Room's tall, narrow door of polished silver. "A disgrace to Mahal and all dwarrow kind. Traitors, charlatans, mercenaries, and bastards - the whole lot 'o 'em."

"There is a great hatred between the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards, too," Óin, who appeared to have been following the conversation surprisingly well (though, it probably helped that he was sitting between Dís and Kíli at the table, and therefore able to pick up the greater gist of the topic at hand), added his own knowledge of the two Eastern clans. "Not much is known about the histories of our Eastern cousins, but the ill-will between the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists is well documented."

"This is true," Balin looked a bit surprised by Óin's unexpected knowledge, but graciously acknowledged it and added to it. "The Chronicles tell o' a great host that came from the East, to join King Durin II and to help him reclaim Gundabad. It is said that the chief of the Stiffbeards rode at the head of his whole army - a proud and exceptionally trained alliance of Blacklocks, Stonefoots, and Thulin's own sons. Incidentally, that is the only time in recorded history where the Stiffbeard chief ever set foot into the West."

"What caused the ill-will between the Stiffbeards and the Ironfists?" Kíli glanced up from his whittling to direct his query to Óin.

"I do not believe our histories say," the Royal physician had his hearing trumpet all but welded to his ear, as he leaned closer toward Kíli in an effort to hear what his king had asked; this seemed to work, as Óin actually answered appropriately. "But, in the early ages of dwarrow history, Kings Sindri and Thulin had a great quarrel between themselves. There was a brief, but very bloody, civil war between both Houses as a result. There has been animosity between the two ever since."

"A fact which makes it quite difficult to believe this Lord Synkkä," Balin huffed indignantly into his bushy beard. "There was no love lost between the Stiffbeards I knew in the War and their conspicuously absent Ironfist cousins."

"Perhaps things have changed," Kíli suggested naively.

"Not likely," Dwalin laughed shortly. "Look at the Firebeards and the Longbeams," the grizzled warrior jerked his chin toward Bofur and Bombur on the other side of the mantle. "There's not 'alf as dramatic a history between our two cousins here in the West, but ya'd never know it for as much as they quarrel 'tween themselves."

Bombur - who, like Bofur and their cousin Bifur, were the sole Broadbeam representatives of the former Company - hooked his thumbs into his broad, saffron-colored sash and smiled, as if pleased.

"Aye, this is true," his eyes were glittering beads in the folds of his thick face. "But only because those thick-headed Firebeards never listen to reason. Too full o' themselves and the fires of their forges."

A contemplative silence fell over the Council Room after Bombur's chuckle drifted up toward the carved rafters and disappeared into the hardened earth that sheltered them all. Kíli leaned his elbows on his knees and his hair fell forward to create a sort of curtain about his face. Usually, he hated having his hair in his eyes like that, but he was grateful for the momentary privacy it afforded him. He stared hard at his whittled block and the scraping edge of his knife, seeing past them with barely blinking eyes. Throughout the discussion, several intuitive suspicions about Kivi that he hadn't yet been able to analyze had fallen into place.

He found her interesting, in spite of himself and her brazen defiance. While he secretly agreed with Bofur and thought Kivi might be a few arrows short of a full quiver, Dís' guidance of the conversation had made Kíli start to suspect that there might be deeper reasons for her resistance than just innate obstinacy. He had begun to suspect, at the start of their gathered council, that perhaps Kivi was hiding ulterior motives toward Erebor. Her decision to reside in Dale and self-admittedly "observe" the comings and goings of his kin had stirred Kíli's suspicions. What was she hoping to see? An opportunity to sabotage them, perhaps?

But, that line of thinking didn't hold for very long. If the master mason had nefarious intentions toward Erebor, then she had soundly undermined herself in reacting the way she did toward Kíli and Bofur. A spy, or an assassin, or a saboteur did not go out of her way to make a nuisance to herself. Perhaps if she had played coy with him, or had tried to ingratiate herself, Kíli might have had reason to suspect ill-intentions toward his kingdom. But, Kivi had been quite the opposite of all of those things and first impressions were hard to reverse - if she had personal or political plans that would pit her against the might of Erebor, then she would not have verbally attacked its king in the course of their first meeting.

No… Kíli wrinkled his brow until his eyebrows were practically a thick, straight line above his eyebrows. He was starting to suspect that she was running from something. If he had read his mother correctly, Dís seemed to be thinking the same thing from perhaps the very beginning, when she learned that Kivi had traveled with others of the North besides herself. And, if Kivi Journeyman was running away from something, Kíli thought it was perhaps best that he didn't immediately involve his own kin in an affair that wasn't of their own making.

"I think that Master Kivi carries secrets with her that may or may not be a danger to Erebor," Kíli finally lifted his gaze and shook his head to try and move some of his hair from about his face. "Perhaps we should take heed of her choices and observe_ her _for a while, from a distance," the king slid his knife back into its sheath inside of his right boot and pocketed the now significantly smaller block of pale wood. "Let us make due with Master Alf for now," he sighed heavily and tried not to think of the response this decision would mostly likely solicit from his growing dissenters. "And wait to see if Master Bard's high opinion of Master Kivi is warranted."

Kíli then fixed Ori with a firm gaze.

"How did you know about Master Kivi's traveling companions?"

The little scribe cleared his throat nervously, glanced uncertainly toward Bofur (as if he expected another outburst) and answered in his meekest tones.

"I run errands for Óin and pick up herbs, teas, and other medicines from Dale each week. Master Kivi's companion, the Elf-maid Katrikki, has established herself as a great asset to Dale. She is a skilled healer, with a great knowledge of herbs and their uses that so far has not equal among Erebor or Dale. I pick up Óin's weekly requests from her and," Ori dropped his gaze from Kíli's dark eyes, to Kíli's dark boots. "We talk."

Frankly, Kíli was rather impressed by Ori's admission, although the scribe seemed to think that he would instead anger his king. Ori had always been quite shy and virtually incapable of speech around any member of the fairer sex. Kíli had seen several of the new dwarrow maids try to strike up conversations with Ori during feasts. On more than one occasion, what he had seen had made the young king chuckle - not unkindly - into his ale, as he watched Ori turn bright red and all but flee from the festivities. The idea that Ori, of all dwarrow men, would voluntarily converse with a woman of any race was quite novel.

_ Perhaps there's hope for him after all,_ Kíli couldn't help a fleeting grin (which Ori missed, thankfully, as he would likely misinterpret it).

"What is the nature of your conversations?" Balin asked gently. "And don't look down, Ori. You've done nothing wrong."

"Unusual," Dori grunted with eyebrows raised at his youngest brother's uncharacteristic confession. "But, not wrong."

Encouraged by Balin's smile and Dori's assurance that all was well, Ori looked up from the floor and met Kíli's eyes again.

"We talk mostly of herbs and their uses. Katrikki will tell me tales of her childhood and legends of the North. She has told me a little of the history of the Stiffbeards and their culture. She has been silent about what brought her and her companions to the West, though. I must confess that I haven't wanted to pry," Ori made a face, as if kicking himself mentally for not being more nosy.

Kíli sensed Ori's chagrin and waved his hand dismissively.

"There's been no reason for you to dig into their business," his hand then turned to brush thoughtfully across the stubble along his jawline. "And there still _isn't _good cause, really."

The king leaned back on his stool, until his lower back bumped softly up against the edge of the Council table. He folded his arms over his chest and considered his words before speaking again.

"Have you recorded any of your conversations with Madame Katrikki?"

It was well known among those who had traveled with Ori to Erebor that he wrote down _everything_. Or, at least, it certainly seemed that way. He was never without quill or book, and the tips of his fingers were always blackened by ink. If he wasn't writing, he was drawing; once, Fíli had jokingly asked if Ori planned to scribe what they all ate for dinner in the Royal Chronicles. A joke that might have been, but it wasn't too far from the truth. Ori had admitted to Fíli that while, no, what they ate for dinner was not exactly worthy of the Chronicles, he did jot down details about each day in his own personal journal. If anything happened of note, Ori then made a note to himself to include the incident in more official documentation at a later time.

As Kíli suspected, the sandy-haired scribe nodded his head in the affirmative; the braids that framed his face swished merrily against his cheeks.

"Yes, sire. She has shared many fascinating things and I've kept a detailed account of our meetings."

"Excellent," Kíli stood up and stretched with a yawn that he made no attempt to hide. "Would you drop your notes off at my chamber, before you go to bed? I'd like to read them."

Ori looked like he didn't know whether to be pleased or concerned. He settled for a careful smile and a meek bow of his head.

"Of course. I can go and fetch my journal now, if you'd like."

"Please," Kíli stifled another yawn with the burly width of his right forearm.

Everyone else who had been sitting (except for Dís) stood when Kíli rose to his feet. Ori was the first to move toward the door; the others could tell that their king was bringing their meeting to a close, but waited patiently for him to officially dismiss them. Just as Glóin stepped aside to let Ori grasp the door's cumbersome bolt, Kíli called to his friend to stop for just a moment.

"Just so you know, Ori," Kíli dropped some of his formality for the moment - it was still hard for him to be "the King" to his peers and close companions at all times. "I'm not asking you to spy on Master Kivi or anyone else. Please continue having your conversations with Madame Katrikki in whatever way suits you best. I only ask that you let me read your notes each week - even if it's just stories of the North Lands, any information about the Stiffbeards and their kin is of value."

"Will you not ask Master Kivi to rebuild Erebor?" encouraged by Kíli's informal address, Ori turned a little more fully toward his king, though his hand still lingered on the bolt.

"Not now," Kíli sighed heavily and ran a hand through his long, slightly-tangled hair. "I think it's best if we keep our distance for a time. We will rely on Master Alf and Bofur," he nodded his head briefly toward the reconstruction's lead engineer. "And whatever help can be gathered from those who remain."

"What about the Council of Words? That's a mere six days away," Ori pressed hesitantly, as if he feared the answer.

"The dice fall where they may and to **Melkor** with the consequences," Kíli's hand fell to his side with a half-hearted shrug. "There is only so much that can be done to influence the will of others," his eyes grew dark with a determination he hadn't felt since standing up to Thorin over the abandonment of his promise to Dale. "To use Bofur's word, I will not _grovel_ before any of the Khazâd - Stiffbeard, Longbeard, or otherwise."

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><p>Kíli stretched out on top of his bed with a contented groan. It had been a long, long day and he was glad to be finally free of it. He felt, however, that he had ended it on a positive note, as his declaration to stand tall against his opposition among the Western dwarrow had been met with vocal approval from his mother and the Company.<p>

He decided, however, not to spend any further time ruminating over the events of the day. What was done was done and he was quite tired of thinking over any of it. Kíli quite treasured his time alone - even when Fíli had been alive, Kíli would often steal away from his brother's side and spend a few hours by himself. The two of them had appeared inseparable to the outside world and indeed, during the quest for Erebor they had been, but Kíli had always needed time to think and be on his own. Of the two of them, Fíli was actually the extrovert, although he hid it well behind the austere mask of the heir apparent. Kíli, however, was an introvert - a fact that many never realized, for all of the young Durin's chatter in his princely days. Fíli had always enjoyed dealing with people and never seemed to tire of them - Kíli had always been quite the opposite, preferring instead to deal more one-on-one with the world around him.

A mug of half-drunk tea stood on his bedside table, just within reach, and Ori's blue-dyed leather journal lay across Kíli's bare stomach. He had quickly divested himself of his fine clothing the instant his bedroom door had closed behind him; all that remained were his pants, which hung low on his hips without the aid of a belt. The luxurious, silky strands of the wolf pelt that covered one side of the enormous bed was warm against his lower back, and the fluffy pillows propped up behind his shoulders and head did their best to lure him to sleep. His balcony did not open up into his bedroom, since that was quite a security risk; it opened up, instead, in the gathering room on the other side of the door. But, there was a large window with an ornate iron grate open to the left of his bed, opposite the wall-to-ceiling fireplace to his right. A warm, almost-summer breeze wafted pleasantly across his skin.

Yawning loudly, Kíli picked up Ori's journal, determined to finish the last few entries before he allowed himself to finally fall asleep. So far, the reading had been - as Ori had promised - quite fascinating and Kíli was beginning to piece together a detailed portrait of life in the Northern Wastes.

Ori and Katrikki had talked more about the Stiffbeards than Ori had let on in the Council Room, and it was this information that Kíli prized the most. They were a complex dwarrow and, according to Katrikki's claim, the wealthiest of the Eastern Houses. They were also the best organized, most well-connected, and most respected of the Eastern dwarrow - among the Khazâd (Ironfists not withstanding), elves, Men and all other races briefly named. As Kivi suggested by her demeanor, the Stiffbeards were indeed a proud people - as proud as any Durin's son - and were quite supported in their perception as chief of the dwarrow in the East.

Kíli made a quick note in a journal of his own, which lay on the bed to his right - he intended to ask Balin about the Stiffbeard's claims of equality to the House of Durin. For all that he had grown up in his brother's and uncle's shadows, Kíli knew little about the politics between Eastern and Western Khazâd. Were the Stiffbeards equals to the Longbeards, rulers of equal footing in the East? Or, was it just a perception shaped by the thousands of years spent apart from one another?

Kíli eyed his inelegant scribbles and thanked Mahal that Balin would never see the inside of his own journal. Penmanship had never been his strong-suit, for all of Dís' valiant efforts and Thorin's thunderous criticisms.

Turning back to Ori's memories, Kíli rubbed a hand absently across the thick, black hair that covered the broad expanse of his chest. His fingers lingered subconsciously against the jagged, star-shaped scar left by Bolg, but for once, his concentration wasn't derailed by the feel of his puckered skin. He flipped a page with his other hand and Ori's latest account - dated two weeks before - thoroughly captured his interest.

"_...A most curious thing happened today, when I went to visit Katrikki's apothecary. It was a quick meeting, so we did not have our usual opportunity to talk about things that didn't pertain to my errand. But, Katrikki was as beautiful and gracious as always; she offered me a cup of a new blend she had made, to try for her, and I stayed for about half of an hour to enjoy her company and craft._

_ "Katrikki was quite busy - apparently, Dale's younger denizens have been experiencing a rash of **morbilli** and she had been working without stop. She took the time to wrap up Oin's requests as always and we chatted quite pleasantly about tinctures and ointments suitable for the care of morbilli. As we were talking, however, we had an unprecedented visitor! Master Kivi all but burst into the apothecary, her expression quite perplexed._

_ "She did not see me at first, as I was sitting at the far end of Katrikki's great big table, in the shadows toward the back of the store. Without any preamble at all, Master Kivi asked Katrikki if she had a mixture of **Klamath weed** and **lavandula** on hand. Katrikki seemed quite surprised, but answered that she did; I must confess I was quite shocked myself, as Klamath weed and lavandula are strong treatments for terrors of the mind and anxieties of the heart. Katrikki immediately set about making another tea for Master Kivi to take with her; they talked quietly as she worked, but I could hear quite clearly what was said._

_ "When Katrikki asked why she would need such a mixture in the middle of the day, Master Kivi admitted that some of her workmen had been sharing with her details of Smaug's desolation and the Battle of the Five Armies. Master Kivi confessed that the workmen were, perhaps, a little too detailed in their accounts and had triggered 'memories of the Harrowing'. I saw that her hands shook quite noticeably when she took her tea from Katrikki. While I cannot fathom what this 'Harrowing' might have been, it was clearly distressing enough of an event to affect Master Kivi from words alone. Her reaction - her wide eyes, shaking body, and roughened voice - are all too similar to what I have seen in Dori and Nori, when the night terrors awaken them and the memories of our devastations come back to them unbidden. Klamath weed and lavandula is what I pick up each week, as well, for the King, to manage his own memories and heartaches._

_ "Master Kivi left without ever once glimpsing me in the corner. Katrikki did not swear me to secrecy, but she did give me a look once the Master had left, that quite clearly asked me to keep this knowledge to myself. I do not know what haunts Master Kivi, but I would not deign to dishonor it by spreading about word of what I've seen. Some great calamity has touched the lives of our Northern kin and I do hope Katrikki – or even Master Kivi herself – may trust me well enough one day to tell me what they have seen."_

Ori's journal lay open for many long moments after Kíli had concluded his reading. He drew one knee up as he pressed his right foot into the mattress; his left arm slid under his neck, to prop his head up as he frowned up at the deep blue drapes that covered the top of his four-poster bed.

"What _is_ your story, Kivi Journeyman?" he gently asked the night in a voice deepened by thought and exhaustion. "And _who_ are you?"

* * *

><p><strong>Reference<strong>

_**Iglishmêk**_ – the secret hand-language of the Khazâd. I imagine it to be something like the hand signals we use in the military, but better developed, like ASL (American Sign Language), so that conversations can be held in the din of a dwarven smithy or mine.

_**Gargbuzrâmrâg**_ – the "Deep Ale Fest"; this festival runs from the 9th to the 19th of the 8th Month (the 26th of May - 5th of June, for the purposes of this story). The Deep Ale Fest celebrates the hard work of the dwarrow – I won't say more than that, since it'll be described more in-depth in upcoming chapters.

_**Gabilzahar**_ – the Khuzdul name for _Kivi Torni_, home of the Stiffbeards.

_**Durin's Bane**_ – the name given to the Balrog of Moria/Khazad-dûm.

_**Vanhin Veli**_ – means "Elder Brother", as mentioned in the text; this is the name given to the eldest brother of the Stiffbeard chieftain.

_**Sindri**_ – the King/Father of the Ironfist dwarves.

_**Melkor**_ – the The first and most powerful of the Ainur; Melkor is who corrupted Sauron and tried to destroy Middle Earth.

_**Morbilli –**_ another name for measles.

_**Klamath weed**_ – another name for St. John's Wort, which is an herbal treatment for mild-to-moderate depression.

_**Lavandula**_ – another name for lavender, which is traditionally used to calm one's nerves (anxiety).


	6. Not a Matter of Choice

_**A/N:** As always, thanks so much to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following! :-) You guys the best. *hugs all around* I hope this chapter is a little more fun/interesting/easy to read than the last one... (For which, I do apologize, if all the dwarven politics are confusing. I'm not big on writing political-type dramas, so I'd like to think that what I've outlined so far is all that actually **needs** to be covered in order for the story/plot to progress in a logical sequence in further chapters._

_**Trigger Warning:** There's some violence in this chapter. I don't think it's too bad, since I did my best to be tasteful, but I can't assume what may or may not trigger someone else. If you've witnessed any sort of traumatic death and/or any war-related violence, please be on your guard as you read this first part._

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><p>"<em>Haven't seen the back of us yet;<em>

_We'll fight as long as we live."_

"**Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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><p><strong>Thanbnurt 'Afgargablâg 4th<strong>

_(Thursday May 21st)_

_**Dale**_

* * *

><p><em>"Kyllikko! Keep up, <em>_**Pikkusisko**__."_ [_"_Little Sister_"_]

The words echoed through Kivi's mind, as she tossed about in a restless sleep. His was a voice she could never quite forget, whether awake or sleeping. She remembered the strength of his shoulders, the warm skin of his bared arms, and the cool, hardened leather of his intricately tooled chest-plate. She remembered his long hair, free of braids as was the tradition of their unmarried men; it was as dark as a losrandir's summer coat. She remembered the way it felt against her cheek, when he stooped to pick her up.

_She had tripped on a bit of stone that jutted unevenly from the otherwise smooth staircase beneath her feet. The darkened stairwell up which her savior and she was fleeing was ancient - an old escape way, built long ago by her fore-mothers, when Kivi Torni was still young. Kiinteä had grabbed her from the chaos and carnage of the __**Taivas Sali**__, the Sky Hall, where she had been watching her father, Oskari, hold an open court on behalf of her mother. The joyous news had been shared during the Midsummer Fest, which had just ended a mere handful of days before, that Äiti Taavi, Chieftain of the Stiffbeards, was four months pregnant with the third heir of Thulin. Oskari, as High __**Shamaani**__, had proclaimed the unborn babe a girl, based on the portents read in bone and wood. Taavi was reclining in her private chambers at the top of the mountain's namesake tower and much of the ruling would pass to Oskari until the birth._ ["Shaman"]

_Kylli had been standing next to her father when the __**Kivi Vartija**__ sounded the alarm. The __**Vahvimmat Isä**__ - as Oskari was officially known - had been holding his daughter's hand gently, her small forearm resting on top of his, when the fell Ironfist lord stormed into the Hall with a clash of bloodied steel. Oskari had turned only long enough to tell Kylli to hide, before he roared to his feet and drew a sword from the scabbard of the startled _Vartija_ standing beside the __**Tuoli Neuvoston**__. _ ["Stone Guard"] ["Strongest Father"] ["Chair of Council"]

_Kylli had been transfixed, however, by the sight of her flame-haired father thundering into the fray, intent on challenging the obsidian-armored Ironfists. Despite her father's rallying cry to the Vartija, the _Taivas Sali_ was a slaughter, as only the _Vartija_ could enter before the Seats of Thulin while armed. The Ironfists quickly carved their way through the merchants, farmers, herders, and other assorted common-folk who had gathered to seek council from their Isä. The sentry bells, however, were clanging furiously, summoning all those within hearing distance to hurry the aid of their kinfolk._

_Oskari's curved sword met the saw-toothed edge of the Lord Ironfist's hooked seax, but before Kylli could watch much more of her father's fight, her upper arm was grabbed by a vice-like hand. She screamed, but the sound of it was lost in the din of death and battle that sullied the brightly-lit walls of the _Sali_._

_"Kylli! It's me! Kiinteä!"_

_She beat her knuckles against the hard shell of his leather armor once, twice, before realizing who had taken a hold of her. Startled, she stared up into familiar eyes as deep and smoky-brown as the colored quartz so greatly favored by their kin._

_"Kiin!" Kylli threw her arms around his hard waist and buried her face in the uncomfortable angles of his armor._

_"Not now, Kyl," Kiin gently pulled her off of him and grabbed her wrist; he threw an uncertain eye around them, but the _Vartija_ had managed to keep the Ironfists from advancing any further toward her father's abandoned seat._

_Kylli followed his gaze and saw her father's stout body - ever so slightly taller and leaner than any dwarf's - heave furiously against the armored might of his burlier opponent. All she could see was a flash of bright steel stained with blood and her father's thick red braids flying about in his wake. Kiin pulled her firmly along behind him before she could witness any more and made a beeline for a small antechamber just behind the high-backed _Tuoli_._

_The young heir of Thulin allowed herself to be led away, although her heart twisted painfully in fear for her father. The _Sali _had erupted into a melee of steel and gore, but she had seen enough to know that the invading swords were sharp and that the Ironfist's grotesquely-shaped black armor was true. She had seen blood stain the white granite stones of her home and in mere moments, she had seen more than one of her kin - dwarf, Elf, Man - torn in half by jagged blades._

_Kylli followed Kiin without question - she was just on the cusp of her first moon and a young dwarfling in that awkward stage between child and adolescent. But, she knew what she was to Kiin and what Kiin to her; they had grown up together, she always looking up to him, as he was seven years her elder. But, despite their age difference, Kiin had been her dearest friend all of her life; now that she was growing older, their friendship was just beginning to deepen with the first blush of something sweeter. Their parents had noticed this development and had privately spoken to them both just weeks before, about possibly being betrothed once Kylli was of age in four or so more years, "should they still both desire such a thing."_

_Kiin was the only son of the Captain of the _Vartija_ - the jovial, but deadly, Miekka. He had been initiated into the _Kivi Vartija_ three years earlier and was one of the youngest _Vartija_ currently serving Kivi Torni. Miekka was, himself, of common birth, but that was of little significance to the Äiti or the Isä, as men were in such lesser numbers to women among their House. It also didn't hurt that Miekka had grown up with Oskari and the two had remained fast friends throughout the years; where Oskari went, Miekka was very rarely far behind. The same could be said for their offspring - Kiin had long ago determined that he was to be Kylli's constant companion._

_And now, he had become Kylli's protector._

"_Where are you taking me?" Kylli asked only once._

_Kiin whisked her into the antechamber and threw his shoulder hastily against a certain granite block, next to a smiling statue of Yavanna - who was, perhaps more revered among the Stiffbeards than any of the other dwarrow, for their dependency on the earth above, as much on the earth below. A grinding sound accompanied the shift of two blocks by their feet; Kylli stared, wide-eyed, as an entrance was revealed in the base of the wall before them._

"_To Äiti," he promised, with a jerk of his chin toward the levels above them._

_The entrance into the secret passageway was low, so they both had to crawl through; Kiin let Kylli go first, in case part of the battle in the _Sali_ spilled over into the antechamber. But, she was able to stand up on the other side and brush off her buttery-soft leather pants without incident. Kiin followed, pushed a corresponding stone in the cool darkness around them, and sealed them into the ancient tunnel. For several long moments, there was a scraping and shuffling from where Kiin stood, as he struck a flint and lit a crystal lamp that had been left on a hook just inside the passage._

"_C'mon," he urged her toward a spiraling set of stairs and the two started the arduous journey up the whole length of Gabilzahar's great tower._

_They went as fast as they could, jogging up each flight of stairs, but Kylli began to tire a quarter of the way up. It was then that she caught the tip of her boot against the rough stone and fell forward with a muffled cry. Before she could even gather that she had skinned her right knee and both of her palms, Kiin had swooped down to pick her up. As if she weighed nothing (which was certainly not true of any dwarf at any age), he cradled her in his arms and continued the long climb up._

_Kylli was too frightened by everything that had happened, to do anything other than accept Kiin's comfort and to take the swinging crystal lamp from him while both of his hands were full of her still-slight body. She curled one arm around his powerful neck and hid her face in his hair, which covered his shoulders in a tangled disarray. She would remember, ever after, how her bright locks seemed to tangle into his like ribbons of molten bronze._

_Kiin had to pause several times on his way up; despite his endurance and strength from hours of hard training, the seemingly never-ending stairs were an exhausting challenge. A few times, Kylli tried to urge him to let her down, but Kiin just tightened his arms around her and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line of determination._

_Kylli would never quite know how long it took for them to get from the base of the tower to the top, but her best guess in later reflections would place their time at a half of an hour or even more. However long had passed, it was enough for their emergence from behind Äiti Taavi's full-length chamber mirror to be greeted with the sight of their chief fighting for her life._

_Miekka was sprawled across the floor in front of the arched chamber doorway, impaled through the chest with an iron javelin. His thick black hair mercifully covered most of his face, so both young dwarves were spared the sight of his empty gray eyes, which had just hours before, laughed at his son as they left their quarters for the day. Kiin stumbled in shock and Kylli could feel his knees tremble uncertainly beneath their combined weight and sudden grief. The grinding slide and scrape of steel tore both of their eyes away from the Captain's broken body; Taavi stood bravely in the center of her spacious, circular chamber, arms braced at the level of her chest as she caught the Ironfist's downward strike against the mithril handle of her war mallet._

"_Äiti!" Kylli cried out without thinking; she immediately reached out for her mother and in her haste, dropped the crystal lantern that Kiin had given to her for safe-keeping._

_Her cry and the bitter chime of breaking glass startled both Taavi and her opponent. Waist-long braids of golden hair flashed between Taavi and the Ironfist warrior, as the Stiffbeard Chieftain turned her head - just for a second - in shock toward the unexpected sound of her daughter's voice._

_It was a second she couldn't spare. Kylli watched in horror as the Ironfist surged abruptly in toward her mother's body. His sword disappeared into the softly-rounded curve of her stomach. Taavi's eyes flashed wide in pain and a soft gasp spilled from her lips as her mallet crashed into the floor at her side. Kiin's knees finally buckled, struck with horror as he was himself, and Kylli tumbled from his arms as he lost his balance._

"_Äiti!" she screamed again; she didn't even pay heed to the pain that shot up through her scraped knee as it connected hard against the stones for a second time that day._

_No sooner did Kylli feel the smooth, white marble floor beneath her, than she started scrambling as quickly as she could toward her mother's body. The Ironfist had triumphantly torn his sword back out through her mother's body and gore dripped like liquid hate from the tip of his blade, as he leered at the tragic tableau that he had created._

_Kiin recovered his senses long enough to draw his long-handled ax from its sheath across his strong back. As Kylli knelt, weeping, at her mother's fallen side, Kiin launched himself toward the Ironfist with a shout of his own._

"_**Kunniaan**__!" his cry echoed through the open, airy chamber. _ ["For honor!"]

_Kiin was no match for the Ironfist, but he did manage to surprise the more experienced dwarf. Enough so, that his ax struck true in the narrow, unguarded space between the enemy's gorget and right pauldron. What happened after that, Kylli never quite knew, as her attention went directly toward her gasping mother._

_Taavi had her hands pressed firmly against the ragged gash that tore open her flesh from hip to hip. The sword had cut her low across her belly, at a slightly horizontal angle across the swelling that had just begun to show. Kylli averted her eyes and tried to keep her gaze firmly fixed on Taavi's face - she had no desire to know what her mother was so desperately trying to keep inside of her. The stentch of death, blood, and gore clogged Kylli's nose as she bent, weeping softly, over her mother. Bile rose in the back of the young dwarf's throat, but she fought it down and tried to soothe the sharp creases of pain that now lined Taavi's forehead._

_"Äiti," her whisper was almost lost in the clash of steel against steel that raged behind them. "Please, Äiti..." the plea died on her lips; Kylli had been in the world long enough to know that her beloved mother would not survive her mortal wound._

_Tears blurred her eyes, even as Kylli tried desperately to memorize the shape of Taavi's face._

_"Kyllikko," Taavi's voice was so faint that Kylli had to bend her ear almost to her mother's lips in order to catch what was being said._

_The dying chieftain drew a ragged breath and Kylli could hear it rattle inside of her mother's chest. The tears came fast and hot, spilling over Kylli's brightly flushed cheeks and disappearing into her mother's beautiful blond braids._

_"**Ole nyt vuori,**_

_**Ole nyt kivi,**_

_**Ole nyt Äiti**__," ancient words brushed softly against Kylli's skin, carried ever so tenuously on her mother's breath._ ["Be now the mountain, / Be now the stone, / Be now the Mother."]

_Kylli recognized the words; they shocked her so soundly that for several long moments, her sobs caught inside her throat. She stared, wide-eyed and desperate, at her mother, as Taavi continued to speak, her breath rattling louder with each word._

_"**Olen Kahdesti nimi,**_

"_**Kiven tytär Thulin**__."_ ["I Twice Name you, / Kivi, daughter of Thulin."]

_"No, Äiti," Kylli finally found her voice and began to shake her head in a wild disbelief._

_Her hands sought her mother's and, quivering with the force of her sobs, Kylli tried herself to hold Taavi's broken body together. Blood leaked thick and warm across her fingers and the young dwarfling could only wail as her palms pressed desperately against the gore that threatened to spill out to the floor between them._

_"**Motsognir siunatkoon sinua,**_

_**Päällikkö Pohjois.**__"_ ["Mahal bless you, / Chief of the North."]

_"Äiti, no," Kylli - now newly re-named "Kivi" - finally placed her forehead against her mother's and let her tears mingle with Taavi's._

_With her final words, Taavi had sealed her daughter's fate - the **Sarvipäinen Kruunu**, the Horned Crown, had now been handed over to the next generation._

_"K-Kivi," Taavi could barely speak, but she had one last thing to say, one last attempt to spare the line of Thulin. "C-c-" her mouth, her tongue, couldn't quite form words any more, but she finally managed to gasp a single name: "N-Nopea."_

_Kivi shook her head, not understanding what her mother was commanding of her. She hiccuped through her tears and listened in horror as the rattle in her mother's chest reached its peak -_

_And then stopped._

_Kivi's whole body froze, as her mind clawed through an overwhelming wave of denial. Frightened, confused, horrified, Kivi frantically moved her hands over her mother's hair, face, neck. After several anguished moments, the dwarfling realized that she was smearing blood wherever her fingers fell. A keening cry tore itself out of her throat, as she snatched her hands away, held them tight against her own stomach, and bent over in indescribable grief._

_Before she could truly work herself into a good wail, a hand grabbed her arm for a second time that day and roughly hauled her to her feet. Kivi immediately twisted around to fight whoever had a hold of her, but she stopped just short of shoving her small fist into Kiin's already crooked nose._

_She blinked dully through her tears - in her sorrow, she had quite forgotten about Kiin._

_And the Ironfist._

_Kivi whipped her head around toward the chamber door; Kiin had somehow managed to lure the Ironfist out of the room and had bolted the solid oak door shut between them. The new Chieftain stared, agape, at the door, and then at Kiin - only then, did she realize that his face was deathly pale. Confused, her eyes dropped and she saw, to her great dismay, that where his right hand had been, was now a bloody stump held stiffly to his chest._

_"Kiin," Kivi's voice was low and hoarse; she looked from his mangled limb to his wan face._

_He just shook his head, as if to shrug the whole thing off. His gaze lingered sadly on the floor behind Kivi and tears filled his own eyes as he realized that Taavi had gone to the Halls of Waiting._

_"Nopea," his own voice was a rough scrape against the eerie silence around them. "We need to call Nopea."_

_What her mother meant finally clicked into place inside of Kivi's head. Nopea was the Great Pale Owl that had bonded with Taavi a quarter of a century before. The enormous bird was big enough to carry a grown dwarf, much less a prepubescent dwarfling. Kivi then realized why Kiin had brought her up to her mother's chamber in the first place - Nopea's nest was said to be on the mountain ridge directly adjacent to the tower. The wide balcony that hugged half of the tower's exterior was large enough for Nopea to land on, so that Kivi could climb onto her back._

_She had been brought to the Tower to escape._

_All of this flashed through Kivi's mind as Kiin hustled her away from Taavi's broken body and toward the crystal balcony doors. They had already been opened, to let the gentle summer breeze waft across the interior of the chamber, so it took no time at all for the two young dwarves to rush to the delicately carved granite banister that separated them from the vast emptiness of mountain air._

_Kivi put two fingers in her mouth and blew hard; her whistle cracked loudly like thunder across the towering peaks around them. As her whistle called to their white-winged deliverer, the chamber door behind them shuddered ominously. Frightened, Kivi glanced over her shoulder, to see the tiniest tip of steel glimmer from the center of the thick pine panels. Alarmed, she whistled again and leaned over the balcony to see if she could catch a glimpse of Nopea's nest. Kivi had to crane her neck to see the near northern peak and Kiin grabbed a hold of her woven belt, to keep her feet steady on the stones beneath them._

_The door groaned; Kivi didn't dare risk another glance behind her._

_"Nopea!" she screamed in desperation._

_The distinctive sound of splitting wood shot through the quiet chamber. Kivi began to shiver in terror and she turned wide eyes toward Kiin, as if to silently ask, "where is she?"_

_"There!" Kiin hissed; he threw a hasty look over toward the door and his face tightened in alarm._

_But, he distracted Kivi from what was happening behind them, by jerking his chin toward the southern slopes to their right. A bobbing white form grew larger and larger, giant wings propelling the graceful Nopea rapidly toward their desperate last stand._

_For a whole minute, Kivi's heart soared in hope. Her mother - through Nopea - would rescue her one last time. And whatever lay on the horizon, she thought she could perhaps face it bravely, with Kiin at her side._

_But, Nopea never made it to the balcony._

_A rain of fire arched up from the slopes, toward the magnificent owl. She screamed - her cry high and otherworldly - as several arrows found their mark and set her ablaze. Kivi's cries joined Nopea's, as her mother's totem wove drunkenly in the air for the span of several agonizing screeches. Then her powerful wings went limp and she plummeted toward the jagged cliffs below her._

_Kivi was beyond the point of articulation; she shrieked her grief and horror into the wind. She turned to throw her arms around Kiin, to grab a hold of the one being she had left at her side, and stopped to stare in disbelief at the knife that had seemingly sprouted between his shoulder blades. Confused, the young woman turned her head toward the broken shards of her mother's bedroom door and to the black-armored Ironfist who stood triumphantly in the middle of the blood-soaked floor._

"_Kyllikko…" Kiin's last word was her True Name, whispered in a mixture of shock and sorrow._

_Kivi could only choke on a plaintive sob, as Kiin's knees buckled and he fell forward toward the railing. Out of sheer instinct, Kivi threw herself beneath the momentum of his body and grabbed him around the waist. His dead weight was abrupt and knocked her own feet out from under her. The two collapsed to the floor, but Kivi was beyond caring. She had kept Kiin from pitching forward over the banister and onto the mountain below. Heart in her throat, she tried to ease him as carefully as she could to the floor, on his side. Hoping against hope, her hands fell about his face and neck, searching for a pulse, for a breath, for a sign of life._

_Before she could come to terms with the fact that Kiin - her best friend, her future betrothed - was as breathless as her mother, Kivi was hauled away from his body by her hair. She found her voice again, and she began to scream obscenities at the enemy that cruelly dragged her away from Kiin's body._

"_What is this?" a sinister, gravelly voice cut sharply through Kivi's violent attempts to break free of the fist that held her captive._

_The Ironfist who had a hold of her roughly forced her to turn away from the balcony, away from Kiin, and to face the door. The lord who had lead the slaughter in the _Sali_ contemptuously kicked Miekko's body out of his way, as he stepped through the shattered doorway._

"_The whore's daughter, Lord Synkkä," Kivi's captor grunted in the guttural tones of Khuzdul. "The heir-child."_

_Kivi didn't hear what Synkkä said in response, as she was exhausting herself in an attempt to gather her feet beneath her. The room was silent, except for the sound of her boots slipping across the patterned white-and-gold marble tiles, as her captor all but tossed her toward Synkkä's spike-tipped boots. A soft groan slipped from her lips as her hands slipped in Taavi's drying blood. Too overcome with her emotions to look up, Kivi closed her eyes and kept her face bowed toward the floor._

_Synkkä mistook her position as one of submission. He made a pleased sort of sound above her and Kivi could sense him bending over, reaching for her._

Please, Motsognir,_ her soul cried out to Mahal as if on sheer instinct._

_Synkkä's fingers brushed the top of her hair...and an incandescent rage flared up inside of the dwarfling. Kivi opened her eyes, intending to push herself to her feet and to push Synkkä's hand away from her, but the glint of mithril caught her attention._

_Her training took over. Before the Ironfist lord could grab a hold of her, Kivi gritted her teeth, rolled neatly over the gore-slicked floor, and scrambled desperately over her mother's corpse. Everything in her rebelled against her sudden disregard for Taavi's body, but Kivi felt as if possessed. Her hands reached out and she grasped the heavy handle of her mother's war mallet as she sprang nimbly to her feet._

_With a shout of defiance, Kivi rose proudly to her full height, her muscles taut with the strain of lifting the heavy mallet. With a strength she didn't know she had, the dwarfling heaved the mallet up and to the ready. Her eyes - narrowed with hate and fury - scraped over Synkkä's armor, looking instinctively for a tactical advantage. With a hiss pushed through her teeth, she hefted the mallet up higher above her chest and shoulders, ready to aim its heavy weight toward the center of his broad torso._

_But, then her eyes caught sight of the hideous prize swinging grotesquely from Synkkä's belt -_

_The head of her father, his red hair matted with blood, his face marred by what looked like a blow from an ax, his blue eyes like painted glass - dead and cold._

_The fury-fueled bravery that had given her the strength to challenge the Ironfist lord drained abruptly from her. Fear tightened its icy grip around her heart and Kivi's arms dropped beneath the weight of her ancestral weapon. The mallet cracked the marble between her and Synkkä._

_It took her several long seconds, however, to realize that the scream that ripped through the room was not hers._

_Synkkä had stepped forward during her moment of panic. When Kivi dropped the mallet, it did more than crush her mother's carefully crafted tiles - half of Synkkä's left foot had found its unfortunate way beneath the mallet's flashing diamond head._

_She was too appalled to scream. Stunned, Kivi froze, her hands still wrapped around the mithril handle that was so very cold against her palms. She stared, wide-eyed at Synkkä, too overwhelmed by the rapid series of events to react in any other way. As a result, she never saw the Ironfist's steel-covered hand flying across the distance between them._

_The back of the dwarf lord's hand landed hard against Kivi's right cheek; her head whipped abruptly to the side from the force of the blow and her fingers finally slipped from around her weapon. The world grew dark as she slumped to the floor._

When Kivi regained consciousness, she was laying tangled up in the sheets of her bed. Her chest heaved, her throat was sore from her cries, and a timid little voice whispered out of the depths of the dark room to her left -

"Täti?"

Confused, Kivi shook her head, visions of the Harrowing still trying to bleed through from the past. The small voice came closer and she bolted up in her bed as a soft hand tentatively reached out to touch her left foot.

"Täti?"

"Keri?" Kivi licked her lips and hoarsely asked the darkness.

The past began to fade, as the present became more real.

"Yes," Keri confirmed her presence and the gentle hand now moved more boldly up to grasp the very tips of Kivi's shaking fingers. "Täti?"

"Yes, Keri?" Kivi took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her breathing; she opened up her hand and pressed her palm against her niece's.

"Why are you crying, Täti?"

Kivi's only answer was to roughly swallow a sob; she reached out to grab Keri's narrow shoulders and pulled her up into the bed. The two said nothing more and Keri, with the intuitiveness of youth, seemed to understand that she had asked a question that her aunt couldn't answer. So, the dwarfling curled into Kivi's arms, as she used to do when much younger, and listened silently as her aunt cried herself to sleep.

* * *

><p>"Well, you look like you've just exchanged a few blows with Durin's Bane," Jarvi lifted a bushy auburn eyebrow at his wan-skinned cousin.<p>

Kivi just leveled him with her best glare and responded with a particularly unattractive grunt. Jarvi, who usually responded to the world at large with a belly-laugh and a grin, startled Kivi with his unusually solemn expression. She paused and met his level gaze with a quizzical frown, the copper kettle in her hands all but forgotten.

"Keri tells me that you were dreaming last night," the Umli mason titled his stool back and braced his broad shoulders against the wall of Kivi's large, one-room home.

"The Harrowing," Kivi said by way of answer; she shrugged and cast her eyes down toward her waiting wooden mug.

She didn't want to have this discussion with Jarvi - not again and for the hundredth time since they had settled in the West. So, she tried, as she always did, to say as little as possible and look anywhere but at her cousin's compassionate eyes.

The conversation, however, took an unexpected turn.

"You need to talk to Keri and Kal about that."

"About what?" Kivi looked up abruptly, her voice sharp.

"About the Harrowing," Jarvi narrowed his eyes at her from across the thick oak table that dominated the left corner of the room, beside the gently smoldering fireplace. "About what happened to their parents. About what happened to our people."

"When they're older," Kivi shook her head stubbornly; she had not yet braided her hair for the day and her long, free-flowing locks all but covered her face.

"They are practically the same age as you were when the Harrowing took place," Jarvi's voice was hard, unforgiving.

"And I was completely unprepared for it," the master mason snapped, her ire rising. "My innocence was taken from me that day without my consent or choosing. The least that I can do is to spare my brother's children the memories of that horror for as long as I am able."

"Keri is beginning to ask questions," Jarvi's voice deepened in reflection of his own disapproval and frustration. "As is Kal. Keri didn't even greet me this morning - the first words from her mouth were, 'why does Täti cry?' How am I supposed to answer that, Kivi?" the stool's legs thumped loudly on the bare wooden floor beneath their feet.

Jarvi pushed himself off of the wall and leaned intently toward his cousin.

"And Kal is beginning to question why he has no father, no male dwarves, to guide him."

"He has you," Kivi evaded most of what Jarvi said; her gaze dropped again to her mug and she busied herself by pouring the hot water from the kettle over the mixture of tea leaves that she had selected for her morning brew. "And Seppä."

"I am not wholly a dwarf," Jarvi countered, heat beginning to rise into his rough voice. "And Seppä is the very best of dwarves, but he is able to give Kal what he needs."

"And what does Kal '_need_'?" Kivi slammed the kettle down on the table with a bit more force than she had intended; her eyes flashed in challenge.

"What Kal _needs_ is to be given the chance to try his hand at mallet and chisel," Jarvi's jaw jutted stubbornly.

For a long moment, there was silence. Kivi stared stupidly at her cousin, startled by what he had said. Whatever she had expected, this was not it.

"I had only started to notice his interest myself, since we came here to Dale," the red-headed half-dwarf leaned his elbows on his knees, his eyes never straying to the right or the left, but boring steadily into Kivi's face. "And, really, it was Seppä who noted it first. Kal is fascinated by what you do, Kivi. Have you not seen him trying to read your journals and your drafts, when you have them scattered all about the table?" Jarvi waved a nimble hand at the slab of wood between them.

Kivi _had_ actually noticed that, but she hadn't thought anything of it. Her face began to flush as she realized what it was that Jarvi was getting at - she hadn't been paying as much attention to the talents of her nephew as she should have been.

"Kal and Keri are both old enough - _far_ old enough - to start learning their craft," Jarvi continued doggedly, knowing that he wasn't going to get much of an admission from his stubborn chieftain. "Kal should be spending his time with masons and engineers - with _you_," his hand gestured through the air again. "And Keri? Keri is much more like your father, Kivi, much like the Umli. She loves trees, open skies, the hunt, and grand adventures. She has a warrior's heart, _serkku_, and should be learning to craft her weapons in Seppä's forge."

Kivi's hands moved restlessly around her mug; her fingers fiddled idly with the handle, as it sat steaming on the tabletop before her. Her eyebrows were knit close together and she was scowling for all she was worth at Jarvi. Anger welled up inside of her, but she kept her mouth shut. She wisely recognized that her anger had nothing to do with Jarvi, but with herself. She had not noticed any of these things about her niece and nephew...and she, their rightful guardian.

"Then it is settled," she finally ground out into the uncomfortable silence. "Kal will start coming to the wall with me and Keri will start an apprenticeship with Seppä."

"It is _not_ settled," Jarvi snapped and rubbed a wide-palmed hand over his face. "Kivi - Kal and Keri need to learn more than just their craft. They have not yet started learning Khuzdul, they have not learned about their history - not just their personal history, but the history of our _people_, of the North. They have never played with other dwarflings and they have never celebrated any of the great feasts!"

Kivi huffed, unable to think of anything to say - even something angry, or defensive, or mean - but her pride was deeply wounded by Jarvi's blunt truth. She had made little effort to teach her niece and nephew the ways of their people; there was no way to deny that without making herself out to be a liar and a fool.

"What happened the other day with the bow has sat ill with me," Jarvi was determined to speak his whole mind on the matter. "Kal should know better than to suggest that his sister has no right to put a hand to bow and arrow. But, he has grown up in the West, with Western Men, and I am much afraid that he has picked up their attitudes toward women. He would limit his sister, make fun of her, taunt her, dare her. These are not the actions of a respectful Son of Thulin."

"You've dared and taunted me plenty, Jarvi," Kivi scoffed haughtily, hands now fisted on her hips.

"Certainly," Jarvi conceded with a casual roll of his shoulders. "But, never once have I, nor any other Son of Thulin, ever suggested to you that you are anything but capable of doing whatever it is you so desire."

"Well...the same can be said of me to you," Kivi insisted. "I've never told you what you can or cannot do."

"Precisely," Jarvi smacked his right fist into his left palm. "In the North, the only expectation we place upon each other is to _survive_ and to make certain that those around us _survive_," the Umli grew more and more passionate with each word he uttered, his own blue eyes blazing. "And if the Harrowing had never happened, if Kal and Keri could have grown up as they were meant to, then there would be no questioning of her desire to seek the life of a soldier, or a _Vartija_, or a hunter. Her brother would not mock her for wanting to aim an arrow as skillfully as a king."

"I still don't quite understand how she even knew anything about that," Kivi tried to divert the conversation entirely.

"Etsijä and I took her to watch the archery tournament during the Spring Fest two moons ago. She was quite keen on King Kíli's competition against Master Bard and the Elven lord, Legolas," Jarvi entertained Kivi's stalling tactic briefly. "Keri has always liked bows, _serrku_ - you would know this, if you ever paid attention to the way she watches Etsijä when he practices. It was quite exciting for her to to watch another dwarf prove his mastery and skill at what she has always assumed to be a Man's weapon."

Kivi didn't realize it, but she was beginning to worry her bottom lip between her teeth. She had dropped her gaze again, and Jarvi could finally see that he was finally starting to get through to her.

"Katrikki says that your soul may never truly heal from the Harrowing and from what Synkkä did to you," Jarvi threw up a hand to stop Kivi, when she jerked her eyes defensively toward him and started to work the muscles in her jaw, as if to speak. "And I - all of us - are willing to accept that -"

"Accept _what_, exactly?" Kivi did manage to cut in, her tone practically poisonous.

"That you may never wish to rule in Kivi Torni, or to truly wed, or to bear heirs," Javi's own voice softened in an attempt to soothe the harshness of his words. "But, if you would not wish those things for yourself, Kivi, then you must wish them for Keri and prepare her to take your mother's crown. You must begin teaching Kal how to be the Elder Brother, to be his sister's Voice to the greater world and her most trusted counselor in private."

"I do not, nor will I _ever_, wish those responsibilities on them," Kivi responded stiffly in her attempt to not lose her temper; her knuckles grew white around the curve of her mug.

"And why not, _serrku_?" Jarvi asked gently, the answer already known between them.

"Because," Kivi took a deep breath and squared her shoulders defiantly. "They should be free to chose their own fates."

"So, you would accept the responsibilities of Kivi Torni?" Jarvi continued to press.

"I have no choice. Nor have I ever," Kivi's teeth were all but clenched together. "I was born to those duties. They are mine to bear and no one else's."

"Then bear them, _Päällikkö Pohjois_," her cousin stood abruptly and pressed his palms hard on top of the table; they stared each other down for several tense seconds.

His words echoed the memory of her Twice-Naming and Kivi couldn't suppress an involuntary shudder. Jarvi saw her eyes flicker and dim with the weight of her remembrance, and he shook his head with a heavy sigh.

"You have done nothing but run away from your responsibilities, _Äiti_," his words were gentle, but firm. "And the severity of your denial is reflected in those two young dwarflings - your own kin, heirs themselves of Thulin's throne," he lifted one hand and pointed toward the little house's open door, through which poured bright morning sunshine and cheerful birdsong. "They do not know how to carry themselves, proud in the knowledge of their history and heritage. They do not know the courtesies and etiquette of addressing other royalty - Keri should have known much better than to reveal King Kíli's identity when he was without his crown," Jarvi shook his head grimly, the ends of his thick mustache quivering with disapproval. "They know nothing of a world that is not ruled by Men and _common_ Men at that. And when they do have questions - which is becoming a daily occurrence, now that they live in the shadow of Erebor - they do not ask another dwarf. They do not ask _you_."

Kivi blinked rapidly; the corners of her eyes suddenly stung with the warning heat of impending tears. Her jaw muscles popped once, twice, but she didn't dare speak. She remained riveted to her spot across the table, her eyes narrowed bitterly at her cousin's broad, handsome face.

"They ask me questions," she finally rasped, when Jarvi stayed silent.

"You don't answer them," it was his turn to narrow his eyes; he looked as if he was reconsidering his approach, but then he heaved a great sigh and ran a hand across the top of his head. "Keri wants to know why you cry so much in the darkness; Kal wants to know who belongs to the names you cry out in your sleep. They ask me why you are always angry, they ask Seppä why you never take them to meet other dwarrow. They ask Katrikki why you never sing to them, or tell them stories, or teach them to use the runes."

"I-" Kivi instinctively sought to defend herself, but she had nothing.

There was nothing that she could say; words faded away before her mind could even grasp them. She had never been cruel to her twin charges; she had never neglected them, had never hurt them, had never wavered in her quest to meet their every need. She had laughed with them, worried over them, chased after them, and taught them many things.

But, she had never taught them how to be dwarves. She could not deny that, even though innate self-preservation tried desperately to excuse her failures.

"They are growing up, Kivi. And I fear the day is not far off, when they will ask me why you hate the Khazâd – their own people, their very blood."

She knew she didn't want to hear the answer, but she couldn't keep herself from asking anyway:

"And what would you tell them?"

Jarvi never broke eye contact; his deep voice reverberated through the neat and homey room.

"I would tell them that it is because you hate yourself."

The following silence was deafening. Tears finally fell for good from Kivi's eyes and her bosom - which she hadn't yet bound for the day - heaved erratically as she tried to keep her composure.

"You speak cruelly, _serkku_," she eventually whispered, her voice a ragged mockery of her normal, husky alto.

"I speak_ truthfully_," Jarvi clenched his jaw proudly, but his eyes were more compassionate than Kivi could bear.

She dropped her chin and closed her eyes, the honesty of her cousin almost too much for her to bear.

"I accept my responsibility to stand at your side, _Päällikkö_," his voice was a soft caress over her wounded pride; Kivi flinched at the reminder of her true title and duty. "If you would not hand the crown of Thulin over to Keri, then I, as your last remaining male relative, must faithfully serve as Elder Brother. I am therefore bound by honor and oath to speak the truth to you, whether you wish to hear it or not."

"You do not know what happened that day," Kivi's voice shook with the force of her tears; she continued to clench her eyes shut, not daring to see the look on Jarvi's face as she made her awful confession. "You do not know what happened in_ Äiti_'s tower."

Jarvi said nothing, wisely waiting for Kivi to continue of her own free will. The words tumbled out of her, as if some nefarious hand had slipped a truth potion into her morning tea.

"_I_ am the reason_ Äiti_ is dead. I-I," her shoulders rolled with the force of her sobs. "I distracted her, w-when she was fighting Synkkä's youngest brother, R-Raaka. I-I called out t-to her a-and," Kivi's knees threatened to buckle, so she abruptly sat down on the stool right next to her. "H-he…" the word stuck in her throat, but after a quiet sob, it stumbled out. "H-he g-gutted h-her. A-and it's a-all m-my f-fault."

Jarvi had straightened to his full height - all five feet and five inches of it - and for a long moment, he stood on his side of the table and looked down at his weeping cousin with eyes wide in shock. But, Kivi seemed to have no intention of stopping, now that the silence had been broken; as she babbled through her tears, he moved quietly around the table toward her.

"A-and I had a c-chance t-to kill S-Synkkä," Kivi squeaked through a woeful little hiccup. "M-Motsognir g-gave m-me strength to...to pick up _Äiti_'s war m-mallet -"

Jarvi paused, his eyebrows rising up to all but disappear into his bushy hair line. The great War Mallet of Thulin - the _**Jäänmurtaja**_, or "Ice Breaker" - was said to weigh as much as an adult male dwarf. It took considerable conditioning and training to wield the fearsome weapon of mithril, diamond, and petrified pine-wood. That a _dwarfling_ could even lift such a thing on her first attempt would certainly indicate the intercession of her Maker.

"I-I c-could h-have crushed h-his chest i-in, but...but…" Kivi dissolved into absolute grief and hid her face in her hands, irrationally humiliated by the ferocity of her tears.

Jarvi crouched down in front of her and thought about telling her that she didn't need to continue. But, he stopped himself, just before the words could leave his mouth; Kivi had never spoken of what she had seen and Jarvi instinctively knew that she needed to hear the memory out loud, in her own voice.

"I-I saw Isä's h-head t-tied to Synkkä's b-belt b-by his h-hair," Kivi's words were muffled by her hands and Jarvi's heart broke; he gently placed his hands on his cousin's knees and bowed his head, unable to witness her sorrow any longer. "I-I w-was s-scared o-of h-him," Kivi hiccuped a bit as she jerked beneath Jarvi's hands; she grabbed a hold of his wrists, as if to ground herself. "I-I w-was a c-coward and e-everyone d-died b-because of m-me. Synkkä s-still r-rules Kivi T-Torni, b-because of m-me."

Jarvi lifted his head and then his hands; he cupped Kivi's tear-soaked chin and brushed his thumbs along the line of her jaw.

"Look at me, _Äiti_."

Kivi tried to shake her head, but Jarvi held her firmly between his palms. Finally, reluctantly, Kivi opened her swollen eyes and met her cousin's own tear-filled gaze.

"I am a c-coward, J-Jarvi," her whisper was a broken confession.

"You are a _survivor_," Jarvi replied firmly, quietly. "And you will be a _victor_, yet."

"I am afraid t-to f-face him," Kivi couldn't bear to look at Jarvi and squeezed her eyes shut again. "I am, after all th-these years, st-till afraid of S-Synkkä."

"Do you think, one day, that you will choose to face him?" Jarvi moved one hand to grip her shoulder and one to cup the back of her head.

"I know one day that I _must_," two more tears fell from beneath her long lashes.

"Will you fight him, when that day comes?" Jarvi pulled her head toward his, until their foreheads touched; this seemed to finally bring Kivi some comfort and she cautiously opened her eyes, although she wouldn't yet meet his.

"I _must_," Kivi repeated faintly. "It is not a matter of choice."

"Then, we will let that day come in its own time," Javi rubbed the tip of his nose briefly against Kivi's, in the manner that was not uncommon among kin of the North. "And in the days between, forgive yourself, Kivi. That will make you brave again."

"And what if I can't?" her voice was small, almost child-like, as she finally lifted her eyes.

Jarvi shook his scarlet head, mouth grim and eyes far too full of knowing.

"For the sake of yourself and for the sake of us all, _**tytär Thulin**_, you _must_." ["_Daughter of Thulin_"]


	7. Gems of Blood and Tears

**A/N:** _This chapter is a beast. I apologize in advance for the length of the saga now set before you. I hope you still enjoy!_

_And, as always...soooooooooo much love for everyone who's favorited this, followed this, read this, and reviewed this. I'm having to rush to publish this before I get dragged off to see a movie, so I don't have time to list everyone._

_But, you know who you are. I luff you dearly. Every review inspires me to keep moving/writing/slugging (it seems at times) forward._

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><p><em>"All eyes to the hidden door,<em>

_To the Lonely Mountain borne."_

**"Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

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><p><strong>Abkân-nurt 'Afgargablâg 5th<strong>

_(Friday, May 22nd)_

_**Erebor**_

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><p>Kíli had to practically dance down the sweeping flight of stairs that lead from the Royal Apartments in the upper part of Erebor's south-western spur, to the Great Hall of Thrór in the central half of the Mountain's iconic spire. The last bodies from the eastern interlock had been recovered from the ruins and buried, and the time for public mourning had been officially concluded. Practically overnight, the dwarrow kingdom had exploded in a whirl of frenetic energy, as the start of the much-loved <strong>Gargbuzrâmrâg<strong>, or Deep Ale Fest, was only four days away.

The young** Thane** had woken up to the thunder of hammers against anvils, echoing upward from the deepest levels of the Mountain. There was a steady cadence beneath the earth and stones, a rhythm that was as strong and as reliable as a heartbeat. The air circulating through the Mountain was warmer than usual; every available forge was lit and production was at its annual high. Stout bodies trotted swiftly about their business; nearly every dwarf that Kíli passed carried armfuls of this and that: baskets of dyed wool, trays of glittering gems, precariously balanced piles of polished weapons, and leather bags bursting with fresh produce. ["_King_"]

Kíli's silver-tipped boots flashed in the light of passing lamps, as he wove his way through the busy throng of kinsmen. From left, to right, to center, to right again; more than one set of eyes smiled fondly at the way their King's shoulder-length hair swayed about his face in time with his nimble to-and-fro. For his part, Kíli tried not to run into anyone, since courtesy demanded that all who passed him bow - even slightly - in recognition of his rank. That meant that there were a lot of sudden stops along his way and more than once he had to change his trajectory quite abruptly.

It was four days to the Deep Ale Fest, though, and Kíli didn't mind. His own heart seemed to beat in time with the hammers and picks, and for the first time since the death of his brother and uncle, he felt _almost_ like his old self - playful, carefree, upbeat. It was hard to be glum, when the anticipation of a festival was stirring the whole kingdom into an industrial fervor. Kíli had not participated in any festival in the last year, except in a ceremonial capacity, and he had almost forgotten the fun to be had in simply mingling about in the general excitement of others.

He had not planned on participating in the Deep Ale Fest that year, either, but the tears he had shed with Dís had breached the walls of grief that he had built up around his heart. Sorrow, Kíli was beginning to slowly discover, was rather like a wound that festered beneath the skin - at some point, the swollen shield of flesh had to be lanced, so the sickness trapped beneath could bleed out. That did not remove the wound - that would still take time to scar over - but even the tiniest puncture was enough to open up the possibility of healing. Sadness still tempered the spring in Kíli's step, but he no longer felt like clinging to it so tightly that he could not welcome the opportunity to celebrate with his own people.

"_Thanu men_!" a deep-bellied voice shouted out above the scurry of the dwarves behind him.

Kíli skidded to a stop, one boot planted firmly on one step, the other on the one below it. Beads, braids, and freshly-washed hair (still damp from his early-morning toilette) flew across his face and shoulders as he threw a hasty glance over his shoulder.

"Glóin!" Kíli grabbed a hold of the gold railing behind him as he leaned back a bit to allow a particularly buxom dwarrowdam to pass with her equally bountiful basket of folded, brightly-colored linens. "**Vem**!" ["Greetings!"]

Thankfully, the two dwarves were just a couple steps from a spacious junction, where the stairs intersected with a broad, black marble road that lead deeper into the spire, toward the Throne Room. Glóin trotted down past his King and then stopped when he was at an appropriate level, his own boots firmly planted on the black marble two steps below Kíli's own. The warrior's armored width encouraged the flow of traffic to move around him and Kíli was able to stand against the railing without worrying about an accidental push over the side from an over-enthusiastic basket.

"I've been trying to catch up to you for two flights, already," Glóin pressed a meaty hand to his plated rib cage and panted heavily for a breath or two. "I forget how quickly you young ones move."

"Well, we have to make our elders earn their keep somehow," Kíli's face abruptly brightened in a genuine smile of pleasure; Glóin blinked in surprise and for half a second, Kíli thought that he saw a strange shimmer of moisture in the older dwarf's faded brown eyes.

"_Yi'_!" Glóin huffed and waved a hand dismissively as a matching smile of his own spread across his brightly-bearded face. "If that's the case, then I have earned my keep two times over, for all the running I've done after my own lad. Never mind you, your Highness."

"Truth," Kíli was feeling playful and couldn't resist the urge to tease an old friend. "But, I _pay_ you to run after me, Master Glóin."

"Hah," Glóin barked shortly, his mustache quivering with a lively smile. "That might be so, _Thanu men_, but do pay heed, or you'll be payin' _Óin_ to look after my heart!"

Kíli laughed - it was a soft sound, not as full-bodied as it once was, but it was a true, genuine expression of mirth. A white edge of teeth peeked through slightly parted lips, as his mouth curled upward in a lopsided grin. He had almost forgotten how good it was to feel like a man alive.

"So, what sends you huffing and puffing after me on such a crowded morning?" the King's dark eyes briefly drifted over the noise and bustle that flowed around them. "I would think it's far too early for my Guard to be hailing me down," another flash of white teeth. "I've only just eaten my breakfast."

"You would have to eat your breakfast much earlier, it would seem, to get ahead of your mother," Glóin chuckled at the way Kíli's eyebrows rose up toward his hairline. "She sent me to tell you that she has already greeted the merchants that you requested and has escorted them to the Thane's Atelier to await your presence."

"_Nâm_," Kíli reached up and scrubbed his fingers against the line of his jaw; he titled his head back and looked over his shoulder again to peer at the way he had just come. "She did mention that she might do that - said she might know one or two of the jewelers and wished to greet them."

Glóin just grunted in reply - he had thought it a bit peculiar that the Princess would intercept her son in such a manner, but Kíli did not seem at all concerned by it. Although, he _did_ seem to mind the prospect of diving back into the fray; the young King eyed the stairs above them with a bemused tilt of his lips.

"I'll walk with you, Your Majesty," the Captain of Erebor's Guard (to be distinguished from Dwalin, who was Captain of the _Royal_ Guard) gestured grandly toward the upward climb behind Kíli with a flourish of his gloved hand. "You shouldn't be walkin' 'round on your own, anyways. Dwalin would have a fit."

Kíli's response to this gentle admonishment was an exasperated roll of his eyes. He did _not_ want a retinue and had done everything in his power to actively avoid a constant guard (despite Balin's and Dwalin's best efforts). Being followed continuously tended to give him a feeling of entrapment, which chafed sorely at his free spirit. Today was a rare morning, indeed, when he opened his door to find the corridor beyond conspicuously Dwalin-free. Kíli had been enjoying the chance to jog down the stairs of his kingdom without his self-appointed body-guard rattling around behind him.

But, he didn't want to keep his guests waiting and Glóin was stout enough to clear the way ahead of his king without concern for any particular challenge. As much fun as weaving his way through the crowd of industrious dwarrow had been so far, it _was_ rather un-kingly of him. And...despite Kíli's reluctance, he was trying to put forth a better effort in acting in a manner more consistent with what was expected of him.

So, he scratched his growing beard (which was still largely unchanged to any eye other than his own) and stifled a sigh. Glóin had a fair point; no doubt; enough tongues would wag at the end of the day, about their undignified king and his solo descent from the Royal Quarters. He didn't need to provide the Erebor rumor mill with more fodder than he already had.

"Lead the way, Captain," Kíli bowed respectfully to his elder and Glóin rewarded him with an approving tilt of the head.

"Make way for the King!" the Captain then shouldered his way past Kíli and bellowed as loudly as he could over the surrounding din of moving bodies.

The crowd of dwarrow parted immediately and heads bowed as Kíli passed them by. The crown of Erebor gleamed across his brow and even though the sudden cessation of movement around him still made him uncomfortable, Kíli was able to appreciate the power he now commanded. Going back the way he came was much quicker (although, admittedly, a lot less _fun_), with Glóin so enthusiastically announcing his ascent. For the first time since his coronation, however, Kíli did not hear the mutter of voices following behind him like a noxious portent of doom. There was silence as he passed and the chatter that resumed behind his back was full of cheer and words of work. Words that had nothing to do with him, his appearance, or the nature of his ruling.

So, it was in high spirits that Kíli left Glóin at the door of their destination and stepped through an austere wrought-iron archway, which lead into a multi-chambered work-room. The Thane's Atelier was located in the several-mile-long level that ran along the upper-most part of the southwestern spur, above the Royal Apartments. The Halls of Light, as the level was known, housed the King's private library, his sprawling Atelier, the Queen's sitting rooms, the Queen's own personal work spaces, the King's study, a number of smaller rooms meant for tutors and children, and finally, a nursery. Every room, every few feet of corridor, had skylights of reinforced crystal panes that could bear the weight of winter snows and yet were thin enough welcome in an abundance of sunlight in any other season. The gray granite of Erebor was laid over with white jade tiles, and glistening patterns of alternating gold and silver. Every room was decorated in the palest shades of favored colors - aquamarine, opal, peridot, citrine, and topaz.

The Thane's Atelier - which now belonged solely to Kíli, as King Under the Mountain - was not quite as bright as the other rooms on the level. The floor was nothing more than the simple granite of Erebor itself and the same for the walls. There were five chambers total, each devoted to a particular craft - one for woodworking, one for tanning, one for jewelry-making, one for metal-smithing, and the last was a sunless forge. The ceilings in each room were high and vaulted; all but the forge had skylights, and the jeweler's room had a floor-to-ceiling window along the width of the whole chamber. Wrought iron and silver accents decorated each arched doorway, and runes of blessing and inspiration graced the walls in geometric patterns.

Kíli went only as far as the jeweler's room, since he had little interest in the forge or the metal-smithing chamber. While he was certainly adept at the more "traditional" crafts of his royal forefathers, the young dwarf had always had a particular gift for finer workings. He had long excelled at all aspects of jewelry-making - from selecting stones, to cutting and polishing them, to setting them into intricate wrappings of silver, gold, copper, and bronze. He was also drawn to the feel of wood beneath his calloused fingers; he had, in his time, crafted a number of fine pieces, to include the matching fiddles that he and Fíli had shared. He did fine leather-work on occasion, too; he had made his own distinctive bracers and cleverly-designed archer's gloves, along with Fíli's massive belt and numerous scabbards.

Unlike most of his kin, Kíli enjoyed the feel of delicate things beneath the strength of his hands. The textures of wood, bone, leather, and jewel had fascinated him for as long as he could remember. Dís had once, so very long ago, remarked that Kíli held that particular trait in common with his father. Ríkin had been a wealthy, well-traveled merchant in his own youth, and in the course of his adventures, had developed a certain fondness for more "unconventional" treasures that were not born of the mountains' mighty bones. Once, and only once, on the day that Kíli finally came of age, Dís had brought out a curiously carved scrimshaw box, in which lay a collection of Ríkin's favorite hair-beads and aglets. Only a few of them, heirlooms mostly, were made of silver, gold, or delicately fashioned iron; the rest Ríkin had crafted out of odds and ends that he had found throughout his travels. There were beads of strangely carven bones; aglets of rare woods; long cords of supple sinew tipped in stiff, exotic feathers; claps of polished tusk and painted shell.

Kíli had chosen a single aglet from among the eclectic array - it was the only one of its kind in the whole of the box, made from what Dís had called "Yavanna's Tear". It was the warm, golden brown of a well-aged brandy and when held against the light, it seemed to glow with the rich, earthy hue of a fabled fire moon. There were tiny impurities within the stone, though, which would have caused any dwarven jeweler worth his craft to discard the stone as inferior. But, the light had reflected through those darker-colored bubbles, as if they were tears suspended for eternity within a frozen blaze. Kíli had been utterly enchanted by the gem and Dís had explained, through a rather watery smile, that that very same aglet had been Ríkin's signature piece, carved with his own sigil and worn at the end of his main braid, along the right side of his long, tapered face.

Kíli wore it now, to bind the ends of his King's Braid - which he, too, wore along the right side of his face. He had chosen it that morning, after scrounging around in his own bead box of smoothly carved cherry. One of Katrikki's Northern stories, recorded with Ori's characteristic detail, had rekindled the memory of his father's aglet while Kíli had been fighting to tame his bed-mussed hair. That same story had ignited Kíli's creativity, which had lain dormant for far too long during the course of his grieving. Fishing the aglet out of its hideaway and admiring it anew in the light of the early morning sun had set in Kíli's mind the task which he now vowed to complete before the start of the Deep Ale Fest.

Before he could consider how he would craft his_ Gargbuzrâmrâg_ masterpiece, however, there was the matter of his visitors to consider. There were two of them, their backs to the entrance of the jeweler's room, as they faced the Princess. They were clearly dwarrowdams, both of them, if the long linen skirts that they wore were any indication. All three 'dams had their heads bent over the long, simply crafted mahogany table that stretched the whole length of the enormous window. Dís straightened up as her son walked through the iron archway, but it was sheer coincidence. She didn't see him enter, as she was holding an expertly cut, midnight-blue sapphire up against the cheerful stream of sunlight.

"Such exquisite craftsmanship, Nali," Dís praised the red-headed merchant to her left, who bobbed her head in demure acceptance.

"**Âkminrûk zu, Ezbadu men**," Nali replied, her voice as soft and sweet as Kíli remembered. "But, the craftsmanship belongs entirely to An. I am but the silver tongue that persuades the purse strings to open." [_"Thank you, My High Lady."_]

"Very well," Dís turned her brilliant smile toward Nali's companion, who stood to the Princess' right and could barely be seen around the buxom girth of the other two 'dams. "Your skill is impressive, Mistress An - these gems could all very well rival the rare treasures I've seen shaped by Blacklock hands."

Nali laughed, then, and the sound of it warmed Kíli's very soul. That same soft, delicate laugh had often been directed at him in his youth, when Nali had taught him the arts of courtship and bed-play. The sound of her mirth still brought a sheepish, almost shy half-smile to his face and Kíli hung back near the darker doorway until he could reign in the boyish memories of his unexpected visitor.

"I should well hope so, _Ezbadu men_," Nali placed her hands on her hips and the young king couldn't help notice that they were wider, curvier than the last time he had seen them so framed between her fingers. "An _is _a Blacklock."

"Oh!" Dís turned to her right with no small amount of surprise. "What a rare honor! Welcome to Erebor and the lands of the Longbeards, my kin."

Kíli could just make out a wimple-covered head bob up and down in a courtly courtesy. To his surprise - and to his mother's - it was Nali who answered.

"My apologies, ma'am, but An is bound to a **geis** of silence, I will speak for her, if you wish."

"Of course," if the Princess was startled to hear this unusual declaration, she was graceful enough not to show it.

Instead, she reverently placed the sapphire in her hand back in the velvet-lined display case laying open on the table in front of her and then turned fully toward the Blacklock merchant. To the King's amazement, _Dís_ now curtsied to _An_ - on later reflection, however, Kíli realized that perhaps he shouldn't have been so shocked. A geis was a rare and sacred oath, that forged the supplicant to the Maker through holy, ancient rites. An was more than just a simple Blacklock merchant and jeweler - her silence, her geis, marked her as a priestess of Mahal, worthy of even a King's highest respect.

"You honor us beyond measure, Mistress. It has been many countless seasons since one of Mahal's Sworn has walked among the folk of Durin, **Úri**, and **Linnar**."

Kíli could see An's face briefly, as his mother dipped low to show the depth of her regard; the Blacklock's dark eyes were wide. Clearly, she had not expected such a display of deference to Nali's revelation. But, despite her sudden expression of confusion, An tentatively reached out and gently - briefly - touched Dís's shoulders in a silent request to stand tall once again.

"I can assure you, Your Highness, that An is quite honored to be invited into the Kingdom Under the Mountain, as am I," Nali paused, as An and Dís regarded each other curiously for a long moment; the merchant finally seemed to pick up on her companion's uncertainty and smoothly moved the Princess' attention back to the subject at hand. "We both hope that our wares will meet the King's expectations."

Nali reached out to open another case and Kíli decided that it was finally time for him to announce his presence.

"I am certain that they will," he stepped forward confidently, as if he hadn't been eavesdropping on the side, and held his hands out to Nali in a warm welcome.

"Your Majesty," the Firebeard 'dam turned and curtsied in a fluid, well-practiced motion, before reaching out (with just the slightest hesitation) and taking Kíli's offered hands between her own.

Dancing hazel eyes traveled down the length of Kíli's frame and then up again; her eyelashes fluttered coyly as they both considered each other after so many years apart. For his part, Kíli couldn't help a proud swell of his chest, as approval flashed through his former lover's eyes.

"King of the Silver Fountains," a sort of wistful sigh tinged the inflection of Nali's fond praise. "You've grown into the perfect picture of your titles, sire."

"You have ever been the flatterer," Kíli couldn't help a quick, cheeky grin as he lifted Nali's right hand to his lips.

"_Nâm_," Nali tilted her head and the apples of her pleasantly rounded cheeks flushed ever so slightly as the softness of Kíli's lips tangled with the gentle scrape of his beard against the back of her hand. "But, my flattery has never been false, _Thanu men_."

Kíli's hair replaced his lips as he lifted his head; for a moment, the two smiled at each other and then the King gently let go of Nali's strong, yet tender, hands. Memories hung unspoken in the air between them, but the lingering gaze they gave each other before moving apart acknowledged the history that they had shared. There was some relief on Kíli's part, to realize that he no longer desired Nali as he had as a young lad of 60 or so. But, there had been much warmth, laughter, and tenderness shared between teacher and student in the past, and Kíli found that he still loved Nali as much as he ever had. The sight of her ruddy complexion, smiling eyes, and welcoming gaze brought him almost as much joy as welcoming his mother had.

"When Lord Dáin said that he had gem merchants in his company from the Iron Hills, I never imagined that it would be _you_," the young King stepped toward his mother and the velvet boxes on the mahogany table; he flashed a smile at Nali as he passed beside her.

"It was a lucky happenstance, truly," Nali explained brightly as she turned with her King. "An and I were returning from our travels in the East and had stopped by **Zirinhanâd**, when Lord Dáin announced that he was bringing aid to the Mountain. I simply couldn't resist the possibility of finding a profit among two great cities in the midst of rebuilding themselves," the merchant's full lips curled up in a playful smile. "And I suppose if I am to be honest, I had rather hoped to see what time had made of our new King." [_The Iron Hills_]

"Please, permit me more time before making any judgments," Kíli couldn't help a cynical snort, as he slid a sideways glance toward Nali. "I'm sure you can remember what a bumbling fool I can be at the beginning of any enterprise that might require some level of maturity."

Laughter filled the air as Nali responded to Kíli's sly reference to the hesitant, wide-eyed, finger-fumbling youth he'd been when first brought to his lover's bed. Awed by the tumble of wild red hair and naked, freckled skin, he had thoroughly lacked any of his usual self-confidence. As he grew older, he would often recall that first year or so with Nali with no small amount of chagrin - he'd been too quick, too shy, too eager, too selfish, too awkward. If one had listened to Fili tell of his experiences with his own Courtesan, the heir apparent was a "natural" - suave, sincere, generous, and thoughtful. Not so, his little brother. Kíli had often marveled at the patience with which Nali had instructed him - even after seven years of learning how to woo and love a woman, the youngest son of Durin's throne still had the propensity to let his impulses lead the way, instead of letting the heart unfurl as it would.

"Time, _Thanu men_, will remember you as fondly as I do myself," her smile gave him hope, as it always had. "You need only choose your companions and councils wisely."

"And is that the real reason why my mother welcomed you into the Mountain?" Kíli was tall enough to look easily over Nali's head and eye Dís with an arched eyebrow. "To ask you to '_counsel_' me yet again?"

Nali laughed, yet again, her mirth and effervescent delight in life never far from her lips. Dís pressed her own lips together and tossed her head with an indignant sniff.

"Nonsense."

Kíli narrowed his eyes playfully at her - he knew better. Nali was too dear and too influential a figure from his past, for the Princess to welcome into the Mountain with only innocent intent. The young dwarf had once learned to please a woman through the guidance of Nali's lush and eager body; with Fili gone to the Halls of Waiting, there was no other dwarf who knew the King Under the Mountain as intimately as the bright-haired Firebeard beside him. He would not put it past Dís to have invited the former courtesan into the Royal Quarter with the express intent of asking for her help in selecting a Queen.

An, who could hear as well as anyone else in the room, seemed rather uncomfortable by the turn of events and had grabbed one of the display trays from off of the table. As a stubborn lull fell between Dís and Kíli, the small Blacklock jeweler abruptly thrust the box of polished gems in the space between mother and son. Nali clapped her hands and deftly positioned herself into the space as well, her back to the table and her face toward Kíli.

"Now, I _will _readily admit that I am more than happy to counsel you about this fine array of gems," Nali winked approvingly at An, as she took the box from her business partner and opened the lid. "We have an exotic variety, if I may say so myself, and we've divided them by color. Here you have a lovely selection of diamonds, pearls, opals, and moonstone."

Kíli allowed himself to be distracted - after all, even if Dís had ulterior motives, the primary reason for Nali's presence was to sell him jewels for his annual creation. His dark eyes finally dropped away from his mother's matching gaze and he considered the sparkling display of white jewels that winked up at him from black velvet depths. He reached up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he turned over the details of Katrikki's tale. Finally, Kíli lifted his eyes up toward Nali and shook his head.

"I would prefer to be very particular about the gems I wish to choose today," without even thinking, his fingers drifted toward his King's Braid and the amber aglet clasped to the end of it. "You say you have an 'exotic' selection?"

"We do," Nali hid her face as she glanced down; she carefully closed the display case in her hands and handed it back to her Blacklock companion. "An and I have traveled much of the East and South of our Middle Earth. There are rare gems in Rhûn and in Khand, where we have primarily wandered. What do you have in mind, sire?"

"Do you have any of Yavanna's Tears?" Kíli didn't miss the way his mother's breath hitched when she saw what he had chosen to wear in his hair that day; he still fiddled his father's aglet between forefinger and thumb.

"Amber?" Nali lifted her eyes and her crimson eyebrows. "That is a greatly treasured stone of the North - in the Forodwaith and the Forochel. An and I have not traveled any further north than the Iron Hills, or here," the Firebeard merchant rocked gently back on her heels and pursed her lips; her green-blue eyes drifted past Kíli to the display boxes arranged behind them in the near-summer sun. "But, I have collected some choice pieces from other merchants along the way."

She turned her gaze back to Kíli and nibbled her lip for a second or two as she considered her next words. The King's own eyes dropped toward the familiar curve of her mouth and his own tingled with the memory of her tongue against his. How very long it had been since he had kissed a woman, dwarf or otherwise…

He realized,with a bit of a jolt, that he rather missed it - kissing, and courting, and the fiery yearning of passion. Although, he did not miss it enough to pursue it again any time soon. The shape of Tauriel's lips was still in his mind, as well as the pang of accepting that he would never know what she tasted like, or how her delicate Elvish skin would feel against his tongue.

"We have only raw amber - it is not a stone of much worth among most dwarrow jewelers," Nali had continued with her deliberation and Kíli's mind scrambled immediately to catch up, as he dragged his eyes away from her mouth. "Even An has little use for it, and there is barely a stone that we have gathered that _hasn't _been smoothed and polished by her hand."

"I understand," Kíli waved a dismissive hand - the Ice Elf's tale had been quite specific. "Let me see what you have."

"As you wish, sire," Nali's expression smoothed to one of neutral professionalism, although Kíli knew her well enough to recognize the curiosity that ever so slightly creased the furrows of her high, smooth forehead. "An?"

Nali had barely turned around, before An passed her the appropriate velvet box. Without any further hesitation, Nali opened it and presented it for Kíli's inspection. His King's Braid swung gently over the collection of stones, the tawny aglet flashing like liquid gold in the air between the tightly gathered quartet of dwarves.

The contents of Nali's box was rather uninspiring at first glance - it contained naught but a jumble of rough stones that looked not so very different from ordinary pebbles washed up at the edge of a stream. There were, however, subtle hues of saffron, umber, and vermilion in each nondescript rock that hinted at the brilliance of color beneath the unremarkable exterior. Kíli carefully reached out and picked up one particularly large stone, that looked as if it had been already been cut open. When he turned it over to lay in the center of his palm, he saw that it_ had_ been partially exposed to a jeweler's scrutiny. The King of Erebor pinched the stone between thumb and forefinger, as he lifted his hand up toward the light above his head.

Fire burst to life within the dull piece of petrified resin; shades of gold, auburn, ochre, and cinnamon danced together in the sunlight as if alive. His eyes grew wide at the remarkable transformation and suddenly, the premise of Katrikki's folk tale did not seem so far-fetched.

"How have we overlooked a stone that carries within it the very fires of Mahal?" he marveled softly, mostly to himself.

Nali answered anyway.

"Because it is not a stone of the earth," she shrugged and tilted her head prettily to the side; even she looked impressed by the fierce brilliance of an otherwise unremarkable jewel. "Amber is but hardened resin - a gem born of trees, not fire. They are the sacred treasure of Yavanna - some tales will say they are the tears of Yavanna, shed for every tree that Man has felled. Others will say that amber is formed when the sap, the blood, of trees is spilled and hardened by its contact with the world, so that the tree from whence it came will never be forgotten. The Elves say that amber is the memory of a living thing and that it will only shine in the light of the sun that nurtured it. In the North, it is greatly desired as a token of love, devotion, and sacrifice - it is often given as a courting gift, since it is believed that it holds within itself the spark of life, of fire, which perhaps means much more in the Frozen Wastes than anywhere else within this world."

"It is mostly, however, considered an Elvish stone," Dís added softly; Kíli glanced over at her and saw that her eyes lingered lovingly on the aglet that now brushed against the side of his throat. "Although, it is typically treasured only among the Silvan folk."

"Not entirely," Nali's eyes had followed where Dís' had lead and now both 'dams were considering the muscular curve of their King's neck and the long, dark-brown braid that lay against it. "It is sacred to the half-dwarves of the Forodwaith, is it not?"

For a long moment, Dís said nothing. Eyes riveted to the end of Kíli's braid, she reached out between them and gently smoothed the tips of her fingers against Ríkin's aglet. Her face - surprisingly smooth, despite her age and sorrows - was pleasant and neutral, but Kíli could see the storm of memories flash through her rich, chestnut-colored eyes. He knew that she was thinking of his father, as she turned her hand and tenderly brushed her knuckles over his braid and the thickening scruff along the line of his jaw.

In ordinary circumstances, Kíli would have been uncomfortable with such intimate contact - now that he wore the Crown of Erebor, such contact as forbidden by any except his closest family. But, his mother's fingers had combed through his growing hair the whole of his life and he turned his face ever so slightly to affectionately nuzzle the hand that had raised him. And, now that he was King, he would have shied from revealing the depth of his emotions to an audience, but An could not currently see around the breadth of Dís's back and Nali had her eyes respectfully lowered.

"Aye, that it is," Dís' hand finally fell away from her son's face and she couldn't quite stifle a heavy sigh. "Your aglet, _Thanu men_, bears another a name besides that of your father. I've always been a little surprised that you never asked me about it."

"You mean the carving on the side opposite Father's sigil?" it was now Kíli's turn to finger his braid, as he lifted the end of it up to the level of his eyes, so he could peer at the finely-crafted aglet. "I never really thought about it," he shrugged, as he rolled it between his fingers. "It's the rune for 'warrior', isn't it?"

"Almost, but not quite," thick black hair fell in gentle waves across the Princess' face as she shook her head; her lips quirked upward in a gentle, wistful smile. "There is a subtle difference in the sigil that is best seen if you look at it beneath a jeweler's lens. It means '_leaping_ warrior' and is, in itself, a name."

"This belonged to someone else? Before Father?" Kíli's eyes refocused as he looked from the tip of his braid to his mother's gentle face.

"It was a gift to him, from a half-dwarf of the North. A man named Oskari," Dís' smile grew wider and her eyes crinkled in genuine mirth. "He gave your father a gift of amber, for helping him woo his One. Ríkin was sometimes wont to exaggeration when he told his tales of a merchant's life, but," a soft laugh fell from Dís' lips and she shook her head again. "He always claimed that this very aglet was made from a chip of the amber stone that Oskari placed upon his bride's wedding crown. He said that Oskari blessed the aglet, so that it would help Ríkin find his own One."

"And did it?" Kíli grinned, knowing well the answer, even though he had never heard this story before.

"I had never seen amber," Dís' whole demeanor lit up with the joy of memory and she gently took a hold of her son's braid for a second time. "And when I first met Ríkin in the Great Market of Ered Luin, I could not help but ask to touch it. He asked to court me that very same day; your grandfather used to say that the only reason he ever allowed your father to sweep me off my feet was because one could not win against a dwarf that was so undaunted by crowns and royal titles."

"No wonder Uncle always called Father a 'rapscallion'," Kíli wiggled his thick eyebrows playfully and even Nali, who was still demurely gazing at the floor, couldn't help a snort of laughter.

"Oh, Thorin was_ horrid_ to Ríkin at first. Said the only reason he didn't chop your Father's hands off was because I touched him first."

For a moment, Kíli could see the winsome maid his mother had once been, as she giggled over the memory of her eldest brother's hot-headed threats. The room grew brighter, it seemed, the sun itself basking in the rare beauty of her delight. He stuck his thumbs in his broad leather belt and rocked back on his heels, pleased with the pleasant pace at which the day was unfolding.

Something occurred to him, though, and the young King's brows knitted briefly below the golden edge of his crown.

"Wait...Father traveled to the North?"

"To _Gabilzahar_ itself," Dís confirmed. "He is one of the very few dwarves of the West to ever enter those great halls of stone and marble."

"You never told me," Kíli's frown deepened - more from confusion, however, than anger.

"That is because your father never spoke much of it, even to me," the Princess finally turned away from her son and moved her gaze toward the brilliantly lit window behind them. "He traveled there before ever meeting me and when he spoke of it, it was only to tell of how he was given his prized aglet," the profile of her proud face darkened briefly with a frown of her own. "Ríkin said the North was a place of secrets and the Stiffbeards solemn keepers of them. Once, I asked him about what he knew of our distant kin, but he only told me that he had made an oath of loyalty to Oskari and his dwarrow-bride, that he would keep his silence on what he had seen while he was with them."

"Silence seems to be a Stiffbeard trait," Kíli grumbled as his thoughts veered unwillingly toward a certain surly, flame-haired, Northern dwarrow-maid who had come to vex him so.

"I have heard among my own travels, amid the Stonefoots and the Blacklocks, that the Stiffbeards value the privacy of their kingdom above all else. They keep their secrets in the hope of keeping their way of life," Nali finally entered the conversation, her voice just barely above a whisper. "Tragedy and exile have plagued our kin to the East far more than it has ever plagued us - the history of this very mountain and Khazad-dûm notwithstanding. The Stiffbeards are the only dwarrow House in the East to remain whole and unbroken through the ages. Much of that, I have been told, is because they keep their silence, amid their snow and ice. No one knows much about them, not even those of the Khazad who live closest to their borders."

"I imagine that much of that has to do with the very clime they live in," Dís softened the sobriety of the moment with a smile and a surprising wink tossed in Kíli's direction. "Your father was quite vocal about one thing, for certain: he _never _wanted to see another Forodwaith winter for as long as he lived!"

* * *

><p>It was another hour, at least, before Kíli's selections had been made and Dís took her leave of the Thane's Atelier. Upon the King's request, Nali and An remained with him in the warm, sunlit jeweler's chamber; originally, he had asked only for Nali to stay behind, but his mother had gently reminded him that as an unwed Thane, he could not be found keeping private company with a woman.<p>

Especially not with one who had Kept Company with him as a Royal Courtesan, never mind how many years had passed since then, or how many rules restricted the ancient custom. Kíli was frankly surprised Dís allowed him to keep private company with _two_ dwarrowdams, but apparently the mores and morals of Mahal's Sworn was above any possible reproach. Plus, Glóin had obligingly moved from his position outside the Atelier's iron doorway and now stood inside, just on the other side of the chamber's open archway. If anyone wished to whisper, they would have to contend with the honor of a Sworn and the sharp blade of a Captain's ax.

For now, Kíli's honor was safe and sound. He allowed himself an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes at the thought, but bit his tongue and obeyed the customs expected of his rank. Dwarrow, as a whole, were by no means prudes - unlike Elves, for example, they reveled in the earthy delights of the bodies Mahal had made for them. And, as with anything a dwarf undertook, bed-play was an art which was heartily pursued to whatever an individual and his One would consider "perfect". Tales whispered from behind smooth virgin hands, of lusty smiths and virile lovers with more stamina and singular devotion than any one being could possibly handle, were not much exaggerated from their original sources.

So, it was not without reason that certain courtesies were put into place, particularly in regards to dwarrowdams. Dams were scarce enough among the Khazad to be as highly valued as any mithril vein - indeed, it was expected of a man, blessed enough to woo a wife, to treasure her as highly as he would a gift from the Maker's hand Himself. But, there were practical things to consider as well - such as lineages and a dwarf's natural tendency toward possessiveness. Dwarrow had learned long ago, well before the conclusion of the First Age, that they had enough woes to contend with, without adding bastard babes and jealous rages to the mix.

The solution that was devised was that of Keeping Company. Dwarrowdams were considered - and, with rare exceptions _treated_ as - blessings from Mahal. It was only right and honorable, then, for a man to protect her, defend her, honor her, and _please_ her. As a whole, the idea of "pleasing" a dwarrowdam was merely a polite turn of phrase for satisfying her desires within the marriage bed. Promiscuity, however, was not at all practical within the realities of dwarrow culture; indeed, "loose" behavior was severe enough of an affront to warrant exile in certain cases. Adultery was punishable by death, although that particularly Draconian custom had mellowed out over the ages to mere exile and the expungement of one's name from the Records.

So, how then, to teach a dwarrow man how to please his wife and to teach her about the delights of her body? The development of another custom aided with that - by the end of the First Age, dwarrow were well known for their total devotion to One. If his or her One died, then the widowed did not marry ever again. "One" meant, quite literally, "One" for life.

Dwarves were, though, sensuous, affectionate beings at their deepest core. So, a balance was struck between two needs - if one was widowed at a young age, then he or she had the option of Keeping Company with an unmarried, un-betrothed dwarf who had come of age, for a span of time up to (but never more than) seven years. During that time, older and younger dwarf could Keep Company - another polite euphemism for a sexual relationship outside the bounds of marriage or betrothal. The elder was the teacher, the younger the student and in its own way, was often viewed as a kind of apprenticeship. There were strict customs that regulated the Keeping of Company - for example, the only ratio ever permissible was one teacher to one student. Teachers could not Keep Company with siblings (for example, Kíli and Fíli Kept Company with different 'dams) and when a period of seven years was up, teachers were expected to gently sever ties with their student. It was then, after the period of Keeping Company, that a dwarf was considered eligible for betrothal.

There were variations of the custom from House to House - for example, among the Longbeards, dwarrow-maids were expected to remain innocent until their betrothal, when it was their Promised One's duty to teach them as they had been taught. Among the Broadbeams, it didn't matter - dwarrow-maids and lads were expected to Keep Company and to meet each other as equals in the marriage bed. And among the Firebeards, physical intimacy was not permitted by a dwarrow-maid until the night of her wedding (in the rare event that a betrothal not work out and a lass was left to carry the child of a man who wasn't truly her One).

The rules worked more or less the same for the royal lines of each House, although, of course, there were yet more policies and procedures when a crown was involved. Among the Longbeards, a prince Kept Company with a Courtesan - which was, in itself, a much-respected position that carried with it considerable responsibility to clan and crown. And, of course, princes were watched much more closely after their period of Keeping Company, to make sure that a passing lover (a possibility that dwarrow were too shrewd to dismiss) didn't suddenly complicate the succession to the thrones of Durin or his brothers.

And so, it was thanks to the complicated sexual customs of his kin, that Kíli had to share Nali's company with a 'dam he'd never met. It was, to say the least, a bit awkward - although, admittedly, An was so small and unassuming, that it was actually more embarrassing to have Glóin humming quietly in the background as a constant reminder that complete decorum had better be observed.

Not that Kíli had the desire for anything even _remotely_ questionable. Nearly twelve years had past since he had last seen Nali and under the watchful eye of Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Dís _and_ Fíli (ever the responsible keeper of the rules), Kíli had gotten quite used to his (admittedly reluctant) celibacy. Oh, in that time he had certainly perfected the art of flirting with a woman and there had been more than a few times when his nimble fingers had found their way beneath corset or skirt, to send a maid (and often himself) to bed longing for more. Kissing, Kíli had long considered a particularly fine-tuned skill of his and perhaps there had been that one or two (or three or five) times Fíli had been forced to drag his little brother out of his own bed, before some furious father could insist on an arranged marriage for "selfishly claiming what wasn't his to have."

And then, Kíli had stumbled into Rivendell and discovered _Elves_. While he would certainly have never admitted such to Tauriel, it wasn't so much the fact that she was an Elf that had enraptured him. Quite honestly, the "Elf" part of the equation Kíli would have rather avoided. But, it was the smooth, creamy skin...the willowy waist...the beardless cheeks...the sleek, straight hair...the high cheekbones...the slender limbs… And, perhaps more than anything else, it was the ephemeral majesty of Tauriel's bearing and the fluid grace of her body, even in the bloody chaos of battle. It was the dream of her walking in starlight, the vision of her blazing like purest mithril in the darkness of the Morgul venom.

And it was the dream of her, the hope of holding something so pure and precious against the sturdy simplicity of his earth-forged body, that still turned his eye away from dwarrowdams. Once, Kíli had thought Nali among the most beautiful women of Middle Earth, with her wild, curly hair, with her slender, beaded braids that gently framed the curve of her jaw from ear to chin, with her full breasts that had defied containment, even when cupped in his broad hands. But now, he saw the weathered tan of her skin, the shortness of her stature next to him, and the thick muscle of her body that solidly grounded the grace she did indeed possess.

Ephemeral, Nali was _not_, nor could Kíli imagine her walking in any light other than that of fire and forge. Nor, could Kíli imagine such things about _any_ dwarrowdam he had met since watching Tauriel shine with the power of her immortal magic.

So, the Erebor rumor mill had nothing to distort - except the perceived inappropriateness of a former Consort sitting amiably with her King in the solitude of his personal working chambers. Sometimes - and this was one of those times - Kíli thought that particular customs of his own kin were as silly as those of Elves.

There was, however, nothing he could do about such customs, except to uphold them and respect them. Which was how poor An and Glóin reluctantly found themselves listening to an alarmingly eyebrow-raising tale of forbidden love.

It began when Nali stood next to Kíli and, upon his invitation, began helping him sort through the gems now spread out across the span of his work-table. He had chosen a number of amber stones, of varying sizes, and a sizable collection of rare red diamonds. The King's selections intrigued Nali greatly, as amber was (as they had already discussed) considered by most dwarrow to be Elvish stones. His choice for red diamonds - over and above garnet, or ruby - also piqued her interest.

Red diamonds were the rarest of stones in Middle Earth, next to the fabled Simarils. As with amber, there were many great tales woven around the origins of the exquisite gems. Among the Khazad, the myths were that red diamonds were drops of Mahal's blood, scattered about the earth from when the Seven Fathers were made. For, as every dwarven smith knew, no craft was ever complete until the maker had spilled blood and sweat - only then, could one claim to have given his all to the magic of creation.

A curious thing her one time student was crafting, Nali could not help but muse, as she watched his dark head bend low over the choices scattered before them. It was considered the very height of impropriety to ask a dwarf what he or she was making in honor of the Deep Ale Fest, but Nali found that she simply couldn't hold her tongue. She bent her bright head down next to Kíli so that only he could hear her daring whisper:

"What are you planning, _Thanu men_, that makes you choose gems of Blood and Tears?"

Kíli turned his head so quickly that some strands of his hair caught several of the finely faceted diamonds; their unceremonious clatter to the stone floor startled poor An, who was sitting humbly on the floor behind and a little to the left of them. She jumped in surprise and the knitting needles in her hands added their own clumsy chime to the silence.

The King and Nali were so close together that his long nose brushed the very tip of hers. Nali's breath caught in her throat and for a moment, she didn't dare look her Thane in the eye, for fear of finding anger there. But when his skin slid smoothly against hers, shock lifted her gaze and she found that Kíli was grinning impishly at her, his mahogany eyes dancing mischievously.

"Are you crafting anything for _Gargbuzrâmrâg_ this year?" he countered her question with one of his own.

"No, not this year," Nali shook her head and the braids at the fore of her hairline brushed against Kíli's looser locks. "An and I decided that this should be our **Year of Favor** and to simply focus on selling our wares, so that others might compete for the **Harnkegger**."

"Excellent," Kíli whispered with a conspiratorial wink; Nali stifled a sigh of longing that was not hers to have any more.

Oh, how she had missed the impish rascal. She had feared that the losses he had suffered and the weight of his crown would have turned him stern, but it would seem that the playful nature Ríkin had passed along was too strong to be wholly dampened by the darkness of the world. She thought of Dís' charge - for, indeed, as Kíli had suspected, Nali had been asked to stay and to help nudge their reluctant King toward a marriage that would not burden his heart. Nali knew, for as much as she still very much loved _and_ desired the young King, that their time was past. So, she vowed in that moment, as their noses touched and his dark eyes danced as brightly as any raven's, that she would see to it that Kíli would not just settle for a political marriage, but for the hand of his One.

And if his One was not a dwarf - for, Dís had told Nali what she knew of Tauriel and the unfortunate shift in her son's perceptions of beauty - then damn the world. Mahal would will what He would and Nali would make it so.

It was the least she could do for the shy and smiling charmer who had brought so much laughter to her life after the heart-rending loss of her beloved Sviur. Her King would laugh in the presence of his own Beloved and that she swore on Mahal's own Hammer.

The moment slipped away gently, as Kíli (utterly unaware of Nali's silent vow) stood up and fished about in the deep pocket of his cobalt hued jacket. After a moment, he pulled out a well-worn journal, bound shut with a loosely tied leather string. With a flourish, he undid the string and licked his thumb to make the flipping of its thick parchment pages easier. He rifled through at least a good half of the book, before he finally found what he was looking for. He then turned a few more pages and marked the ending of what appeared to be a chapter with the long length of worn leather. He then handed the whole thing to Nali and motioned toward a nearby stool.

"I would appreciate company for a time. My Scribe, Master Ori, has been collecting stories of the North - would you read that one for me?" Kíli jerked his chin toward the battered journal in Nali's startled hands. "It will answer the question that you asked and I would like to listen to it as I plan my next steps."

"O-of course, sire," Nali blinked, a bit bemused by the odd request.

Usually, dwarves preferred to craft in silence and solitude. But, Kíli had ever been best inspired by the sound of music and the rhythm of a good story telling - this Nali knew from having sat with him while he worked as a younger lad. This was not the first time he had ever asked this of her, but she had assumed, in some vague fashion, that he had grown out of the habit.

Apparently, not. Kíli's inspiration, it would seem, was forever tied to the timbre and pitch of voice and sound. In that regard, he was so very much like his uncle, Frerin, who had also worked best with a song to accompany the heavy rise and fall of his smith's hammer.

The fiery merchant gathered her simple, pale pink skirts about her and sat down on the stool that Kíli had offered. She waited patiently as he sat down himself and reached for a wheel made of diamond with which to start shaping the rough pieces of amber into desired preforms. Nali took that as her cue to turn her attention to the neat, if blocky, script between her palms and within moments, her velvety voice began weaving images into the silence.

* * *

><p><em>Our tale begins in the waning years of the First Age, when Arda was yet new and fresh from its creation. In the ancient lands of Hildorien - the birthplace of the Race of Men, in the south of Cuivenen, along the flanks of the Mountains of the Wind, in the center of our Middle Earth - there was a valiant Bard named Sinuphel. In in her own tongue, her name meant "Enchanting".<em>

_Sinuphel was indeed worthy of that title. She was small for a Man, barely above the height of a tall dwarf, yet she commanded power almost as great as any Istari. She was exceedingly comely in body and in features, but her crowning glory was the brilliance of her hair, upon which even Drúin the Proud, Father of the Blacklock dwarves, heaped great praise. Among Sinuphel's dwarrow neighbors, she was known as 'Azimul', or 'Lady of the Golden Color', and she was greatly treasured by all the races who called Hildorien their home._

_For, she protected them against the Darkness that crept along their borders, lusting and wanting for the sweetness of their corruption. To Sinuphel was granted the gifts of Voice and Song. She could play any instrument of any race, but her favored was a dwarven **frame drum**, from which she spun songs of passion, defiance, and courage. Her voice, it is said, was as honey - rich, and sweet, and deep, a voice that could soften hearts of stone and woo set minds to better courses. And so, it was with her drum and honeyed voice that she wove spells of might to hold at bay the lusts of dread Morgoth._

_In those days, it was the custom of Men to wed when young, and so by her fifteenth year Sinuphel was bound in marriage to the great Chieftain of Hildorien, the noble Cintapher, who was seven years her elder. For ten years, their marriage was well, for Cintapher and Sinuphel were of like minds and hearts. Cintapher proudly claimed that Sinuphel was the strength of his arm and she was never too proud to claim him as the hymn of her heart._

_There was but ever one marr to their union - for all the passions of their marriage bed, Sinuphel never grew with child. A tremor of sadness wove its way through their love and it was this that Morgoth corrupted to spite Sinuphel's defiance._

_Oh, for Morgoth lusted long for Sinuphel's power. Not only did he hunger for the fall of Men, but he stirred deeply in desire for the beauty, grace, and might of Hildorien's protector. The comeliness of Sinuphel was so great in all her ways, that the corruption of her was a prize for which Morgoth craved with a fierce and ugly passion. But, as Sinuphel aged and her grace but only grew, Morgoth was faced with a bitter defeat. For her spirit was far too strong and far too pure to fall to any Dark illusion or false promise._

_And so, in the darkness of one moonless night, when Sinuphel's Voice denied Morgoth entrance into Hildorien for yet a hundredth time, he cursed her._

"May this be for all the ages: Cintapher's wife and all her heirs shall join in love against their law and produce in each generation a half-folk, who shall be shunned by Second-Born and Dwarfborn alike. A Curse upon Sinuphel and may her belly swell with child not born of Cintapher's seed._" _

_Sinuphel, for all her wisdom, did not know Morgoth's own tongue, the broken Melkorin, in which he spoke his curse. So she went back to Cintapher's bed and the warmth of their hearth, not knowing the truth of Morgoth's hate._

_The curse unfolded slowly and it was well over a year before the reality of Morgoth's malediction began to make itself known in Sinuphel's tranquil life. As she was so pure of thought and deed, the curse did not begin with her, but found its way to Cintapher's heart, through his sadness over Sinuphel's empty womb. Anger and bitterness wound its way into the love he held for his treasured wife, until the Strength of His Arm became the very thing he hated. The curse put cruelty into his words and tainted his vision with disgust. The disappointment he had felt in mere passing - for, in truth, Cintapher uncursed was saddened by his lack of heirs, but not so much as to cause him to honor Sinuphel any less - festered in the embrace of Morgoth's greed and blossomed into a madness the likes of which even fair Sinuphel could not contend._

_On the eve of Hildorien's spring fest, when the fertility of all wombs was honored, Cintapher's cursed hate finally made itself known to Sinuphel. Instead of drawing her down into their bed and pleasuring her, he cursed her. In a rage, he pronounced her unfit and unbecoming. As tears fell from Sinuphel's sapphire eyes, Cintapher named her loathsome and repulsive, shriveled and barren like the waste of her womb. And then he hit her so that she fell across their bed and cruelly commanded her to leave his sight._

_There was but one that Sinuphel could think to run to - her dearly beloved friend, Khazí, youngest prince of the Blacklocks. Khazí and Sinuphel had grown together from Sinuphel's very birth, for it was Khazí's mother, 'Dam Luin, who had been her midwife. For, you see, in those days, the Secondborn and the Dwarfborn were the surest of allies, especially those of Hildorien and **Tumunumahâl**._

_In tears, Sinuphel rushed to the forge that Khazí kept there, in the settlement of Men. With a rising rage, Khazí tended to the brutal welt on Sinuphel's comely face and listened to her broken sorrow. Furious, the dwarf prince vowed to call Cintapher out in combat and exact a harsh justice for the Chieftain's grievous crime. But Sinuphel - who yet loved Cintapher deeply, despite the horror of his betrayal - pleaded with Khazí to aid her in another way._

"Make me beautiful, my dear friend_," she took Khazí's hardened hands in hers and begged. "_For of all the races within this world, none can fashion beauty out of what is not with more skill than the Dwarfborn._"_

_Khazí could not deny Sinuphel's request, for he had long loved her, with all the loyalty and honor of a dwarf toward his One. So, he bade her to stay with him, so that he could protect her against Cintapher's hand, if the need arose. And he worked without sleeping for seven days and seven nights, to fashion a gift of beauty the likes of which Arda had not yet seen._

_First, Khazí gathered to him gems of great wealth and rarity - Tears of Yavanna, to represent all the ones Sinuphel had ever shed in defense of Hildorien, in defense of Men and Dwarves, in defense of her own honor against Cintapher's accusations of unworthiness. He then chose the most treasured of all Dwarven gems, the Blood-jewels of Mahal, to summon upon their bearer all the power of love, fertility, and creativity that the Maker had sprinkled across the span of Arda. And then, he spun a rare and precious gold, tempered quite by accident by blood from his own hand, drawn by a cut he tore across his palm in a moment of uncommon carelessness._

_It was, however, Morgoth's curse at work, slyly turning Khazí's pure love against him. The blood of his hand infused the gold he had melted with a lovely rose sheen. By Khazí's hand and blood, he created Arda's first Claret Gold, infused with the strength of his heart and the greatness of the love he carried for Sinuphel. The sheen of the rose-tinted gold was so becoming, that he added more of his blood as he fashioned great loops of delicate chain for the mounting of the jewels that he had selected. And it was his blood - the strength of his love and devotion - that would seal his fate and that of the very one he so adored._

_In the end, Khazí created a necklace that covered the whole of Sinuphel's body. It began as a dainty choker of gold chain around the throat, at the center of which he placed a perfect drop of Yavanna's Tear. From the choker fell loops of more blood-tinted gold__, loops that were meant to sway gently across the peak of each breast and to draw the eye further to the bottom curve of each pleasant swell. Every few links a tiny Blood-jewel sparkled, designed to catch the light and make it glow in sultry tones against smooth, naked flesh. At the apex of each golden loop, Khazí hung a Tear, to weigh the delicate chains and to add another layer of beauty for the eye. One long, straight chain fell from the very center of the choker, from below its suspended Tear; it was measured to run the whole length of Sinuphel's body, between breast and over belly. It ended in the heavy weight of a large Blood-jewel, designed to draw temptation and pleasure to the soft apex of her thighs._

_This center chain was to be held in place with another chain that would drape across Sinuphel's hips and around the curves of her back. The two chains were measured to meet in the hollow of her navel, bound together with yet another large Blood-jewel. Khazí secured the weight and shape of the necklace along the shoulders as well, with loops that would fall along the curve of muscle in Sinuphel's upper arms and underneath her arms as well, to attach to yet more chains that fell from the choker in delicate waves across her back._

_During the whole of his creation, Sinuphel sat with Khazí in his place of work, at the forge and jeweler's table. In that time, the curse shifted the nobleness of Khazí's honor and when he was done fashioning her beauty, he was gripped with a fierce longing to have her for himself. For, within those seven days and nights, the necklace he crafted for Sinuphel became less of a token of beauty to tempt Cintapher's desire and more of a token of Khazí's own unrequited desire._

_And yet, in the way of Dwarves, Khazí resisted the temptations stirring within him. He gave Sinuphel her necklace and sent her on her way with naught but a kiss on the hand and a murmured prayer for Mahal's sacred blessing._

_It was but hours later that Sinuphel returned to Khazí's forge, in tears and pain. Even the magic of Dwarven craft could not sway the cruelty of Morgoth's curse on Cintapher's senses. Oh, he did indeed find Sinuphel desirous, upon seeing her bearing naught but Khazí's golden chains and fiery jewels. But their coupling was harsh, with no thought given to Sinuphel's pleasure and her once-tender husband soon left her to weep in shame and distres._

_Yet again, she fled to Khazí and so great was her desire to escape from Cintapher's cruelty, that she arrived at the prince's forge with nothing more than a cloak cast about her necklace-clad body. Khazí took her in his powerful arms to comfort her and the curse finally came to its fruition. Weakened by her sorrow, Sinuphel clung to Khazí's tenderness; Khazí, weakened by his anger toward Cintapher's brutality and by the binding of blood he had so unwittingly woven into his gift, found that he could no longer deny the depth of his desires. And so, when he hoarsely asked Sinuphel to let him see her clad in his creation, she granted it._

_Nor did Sinuphel deny Khazí, when he pulled her down upon her cloak and lay with her before the ever-burning fire of his forge. For hours he pleasured her, whispering words of love in the tongue of his people, claiming her with certainty and devoted intent. For hours, Sinuphel willingly abandoned herself to the hardness of Khazí's body and the gentleness of his hands. Through the full length of the night they moved together joyfully and loved each other slowly, until they both fell asleep at the sun's first rays of dawning - Sinuphel's fingers wrapped in Khazí's thick black braids and his hand tangled in her own golden strands._

_Sinuphel returned to Cintapher upon that morn, but in the face of her husband's cold disdain, she fell further and further into the warmth of Khazí's consuming passion. For two moons, Sinuphel and Khazí lay together, until Sinuphel began to see her belly swell. Khazí's seed had taken root where Cintapher's had not and a choice was forced upon the two lovers._

_Cintapher's derision did not abate in the discovery of Sinuphel's fragility, but he no longer hit her. Pleased with himself, Cintapher blindly believed that he had filled the emptiness of Sinuphel's womb on the night she had come to him adorned in Khazí's gift. For their part, Sinuphel and Khazí kept their silence; though, in the long months of her waiting, the dwarf prince and his lover continued to meet. In her sixth month with child, Khazí told her of his desire to take her away from Cintapher and Hildorien, even Tumunumahâl._

"You are mine, Beloved_," he told her one eve, as they lay yet again before his fire. "_And I am not ashamed to claim you, for Cintapher has lost his honor to madness. Let us go to the North, to the Frozen Lands. I have written in secret to my cousin, Sääli, who wed the lord of the Stiffbeards. We are welcome in **Kibil-tarag**._"_

_Weary of Cintapher's dismissal, Sinuphel agreed to flee with Khazí. It was, however, the beginning of winter at that time, so they both agreed to leave Hildorien after the first thaw, just before the start of the **Blessed Green Fest**. That was another six months hence and left them both with plenty of time to prepare for their escape._

_Sinuphel gave birth in the midst of **Iklaladrân**. She insisted on giving birth unaided by midwife or witness, claiming that the birth of her child was a sacred rite that she would claim on her own standing. Unknown to all - and unexpected by Sinuphel - Khazí joined her in the lone birthing hut at the edge of Cintapher's city. In the throes of her struggle to push life into existence, Sinuphel could not find it within herself to insist that Khazí leave her be; together, the lovers welcomed not one child into their waiting arms, but two. Twins they were, born of love forbidden by all laws: Ucin, son of Khazí, son of Drúin, and Ulaphel, daughter of Sinuphel, wife of Cintapher. _["Winter"]

_And so began the line of the Umli, cursed of Morgoth, half of Men and half of Dwarf._

* * *

><p>"By Mahal's own beard!" Glóin harrumphed from his guard just outside the chamber door, which was well within range of Nali's voice. "No more! What a fell tale!"<p>

"Are you sure you don't want to hear about how Sinuphel's dishonor was discovered by a maid on the very eve that she and Khazí were to leave for Kibil-tarag? Or how a curse-maddened Cintapher tricked Khazí in a duel of justice and ran him through with his own blade?" Nali called teasingly to the guardsman as she briefly glanced ahead of where he had stopped her.

"Of _course_ the prince dies," Glóin grumbled. "I don't think I could bear the rest - what a woeful legend," his voice grew a bit stronger as his bushy red beard and squinty eyes peered around the corner of the archway. "Clearly, the babes survived, as there's that Umli mason in Dale. That's all I need to know," he added gruffly and Nali had to hide her smile at the odd shine in the elder dwarf's dark eyes.

Glóin, it would appear, had a weakness for tragic, romantic tales. His face abruptly disappeared again and he said no more, but there was a loud sniff or two from behind the privacy of the chamber wall.

"I imagine you already know how the story ends?" Nali turned to Kíli, who had paused long enough in his gem-cutting to smirk over his shoulder at where Glóin's watery eyes had been.

"Indeed," he nodded and then heaved a dramatic sigh. "Sinuphel watched as Khazí fought and fell for her honor. Then she fled in the darkness of night for the North, though she couldn't bring herself to live in Kibil-tarag, among the Dwarfborn. She settled in Urd, instead, in the far north of Endor, near the Iron Mountains, where she and the twins were taken in by the Lossoth, or Snowmen, of that region. When Ucin and Ulaphel were fourteen years of age, Sinaphel was slain by the cold-drake, Lamthanc."

At that revelation, there was another despairing groan from beyond the chamber archway and Kíli shared a crooked, playful grin with Nali at Glóin's expense.

"And Cintapher was freed from the curse in Sinuphel's absence; he spent the rest of his life in regret and grief. Drúin never forgave him the death of his son and the trust between Men and Dwarves in the East was forever severed," Nali added, her eyes skimming quickly over the last page of Ori's precise and pleasant script.

"But, not all ended ill!" Kíli assured the loud sniff that followed Nali's summary. "Ucin killed Lamthanc and later wed Báis, daughter of Broin, a lord of the Blacklocks. And Ulaphel grew to become a powerful priestess of Mahal and married a Lossadan Man of great strength and honor, by the name of Aluenda."

"Still a bloody awful tale," Glóin was quite set in his opinion.

"It_ is_ a sad one," Nali agreed, as she gently closed Ori's journal, knowing that her eyes would not be welcome on the other pages within it. "Surely, Your Majesty," she paused to consider the red diamonds and amber on the table next to her with a sudden understanding. "You're not planning to recreate Sinuphel's necklace!"

"Why not?" Kíli pointedly refused to meet her gaze and instead peered critically at the preform amber he had just finished shaping. "The original no longer exists, as Sinuphel wore it to her dying day and burned along with it in the frozen fire of Lamthanc's breath."

"Seems as if it'd be a cursed thing," Glóin's face cautiously reappeared and he, too, eyed what he could see of the jeweler's table with no small amount of skepticism.

"Khazí's love was sure long before Morgoth's curse used it to its own end," Kíli shook his head and his father's aglet flashed bright against the loosened opening of his tunic. "And the necklace was never cursed, either. It was created with love and devotion; against his own desires, Khazí gave it to Sinuphel to win back her own husband. It wasn't until she returned, dishonored by Cintapher's cruelty, that he gave in to his heart," the young King argued earnestly, his eyes never straying from the rough jewel and polishing wheel in his hands. "Khazí loved Sinuphel as his One - he stood by her, was present at the birth of his heirs, and fought for her honor. _Died_ for it, really. The villain of the story is _not _Khazí."

"No, but he _is _the Fool of it," Glóin dourly decreed.

"Is he?" Kíli's fingers paused and he unconsciously chewed the bottom of his lip as his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Tauriel. "Can we ever help who we love? Or is it all but a curse?" his eyes grew dark and troubled, his voice dropping low as if speaking to himself.

"Love most certainly turns us_ all _to fools," Nali stated firmly, secretly distressed by the sadness that dimmed the light in her Thane's handsome face. "But it is _never_ a curse," she tossed a disapproving look at Glóin, who seemed to realize that he'd gone a bit too far and grimaced in apology. "Your Majesty, if you desire to create a treasure from legend - a treasure crafted with selfless devotion, whatever the end of the tale - then it should be a grace to the Halls of Erebor. And who knows?" Nali leaned in toward Kíli and gently touched the edge of his sleeve, silently urging him to meet her gaze. "Perhaps it, too, will help draw your eye to a hidden beauty."

"So, you think I should dangle this before the maids of Erebor as a courting gift?" the young King couldn't quite help the bitterness in his voice, or the disapproval that flashed across his face.

"Not at all, _Thanu men_," Nali matched his frown with one of her own. "But, when you reveal this to Erebor at the _Harnkegger_'s Feast in naught but four days, all present _are_ going to assume that this is a courting gift. Use it to _your_ advantage," the wily merchant leaned back and her hazel eyes sparred a long moment with the darker gaze of her King. "Tell me, sire, appearance aside, what would you find beautiful in your One?"

Kíli had never considered such a question - much less ever been asked it. Nali's bluntness took him back a bit and for the silent span of nearly five minutes, stone and wheel lay unforgotten between his blunt fingers. Finally, he turned his gaze toward the window stretched wide before him and squinted thoughtfully against the brilliance of the sun as it began its steady descent through the hours of a languid afternoon.

"I would desire a woman of wit, who could laugh with me, who could make me laugh. I think I would desire a woman of knowledge, who has seen the world and perhaps knows of war, who would not look at me in fear when I wake in the middle of the night," Kíli resolutely refused to look anywhere but straight ahead into the light, as he softly admitted to his night-terrors. "I desire an equal, a Queen with wisdom to guide the Mountain should duty take me elsewhere for a time. I would, if I could, love a maid who possesses grace and ferocity in equal measure, who does not judge or dismiss those who are not like her, who can perhaps share with me new adventures and I with her."

"And of that list, what to you is most desirable? Most beautiful?" Nali gently prodded.

Kíli thought deeply and chewed his lip for a moment; the odd habit had long endeared him to his former Courtesan, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him silly. Since, well, kissing wasn't an option.

"An equal," Kíli finally decided, after thinking hard of what it was about Tauriel that had attracted him most deeply.

The Elf-maid had never looked down on him, had never held his appearance (which by her people's standards was just shy of hideous) against him, and had never valued him based on the worth of his lineage. She had fought for him, fought _beside_ him, and had not once ever expected him to save her from the dangers they encountered. Quite the opposite, really, since it was _she _who had saved_ him_ not once, but three times - to include the sacrifice she gave in order to throw the aim of Bolg's mace-hilt just enough to make all the difference and to all but ride the vicious Orc over the edge of Ravenhill's steep cliffs to their mutual demise.

The common thread that tied all of his interactions with Tauriel together was one of respect - a respect born from a certain sense of equality with one another. Tauriel never once hinted, by demeanor or word, that she thought herself superior to Kíli, even though their fleeting romance was well-defined by her constantly pulling him out of his own troubles. She certainly never carried herself as if she considered herself superior by virtue of her own race; nor did she ever defer to Kíli's title, as technically she was, Elf or not, a Captain to his Crown.

No, Tauriel had treated him with the compassion and dignity of a being that, while different from her most certainly, still contained within him the light of life. "Pure and precious", she had called his heart and he had thought the same of hers. They had been equal in word and deed toward one another, neither one considering the other above or below their own self.

With dwarves, though... Kíli sighed. With dwarves, he was King Under the Mountain. He could never escape that title and even though he was teaching himself to honor it, he did not want a 'dam who would remind him of what he had won by sole virtue of his losses.

What would he find beautiful? What his mother had found in her father - "_a dwarf that was so undaunted by crowns and royal titles._" A 'dam who was bold enough to get in his face, speak her mind, and poke him in the chest.

A sharp laugh fell from his lips, as the image of Kivi Journeyman - feisty, fiery, and unyielding, with those eyes that flashed like River Running's waterfalls - sprang to mind.

_Well, perhaps not_ that_ bold,_ Kíli amended, his expression now bemused by his private thoughts; he wouldn't object to a_ little_ adoration.

Kivi Journeyman did _not_ strike him as the sort of 'dam given to such foolish frippery as "_adoration_". And, well...Kíli was a true romantic at heart and knew well already that any 'dam who won his heart would be showered in _his_ continual affection. The mutual return of such emotion was something for which he privately longed. Kíli had long known - well before Tauriel, really - that he was the kind of dwarf to love deeply and passionately. He could never be satisfied or secure with a marriage in which such devotion was not instinctively returned.

"You seem to have a maid in mind already," Nali misinterpreted her King's laugh, which just made him laugh harder.

"Mahal, _no_," he chortled heartily, some of his good mood restored at her expense. "Let's just say that I've already encountered an example of how the virtue of equality can go a little too far."

"Well, then let us not entertain extremes," Nali smiled, willing enough to laugh along with him, no matter his reason for amusement. "When you present this necklace to the Mountain and your kin, use it as a challenge. Make _it_ the prize to be won and not your Crown."

"What do you mean?" Kíli titled his head to the side in momentary confusion, not quite certain of Nali's point.

"Say that you will grant the necklace as a courting gift to the 'dam who can tell you the tale that gave birth to it," Nali leaned in toward Kíli, who was still frowning at her, quite unconvinced, and whispered conspiratorially. "And say also that you will grant it to the one who can make herself beautiful in your eyes, without the aid of jewels or gold."

"Even if you take out the jewels and gold, that's _still _going to get me bombarded by a bunch of primping dwarrow-maids," Kíli argued, his voice also a throaty whisper. "And Ori will have _fits _when they all descend upon his Library. You don't know what Ori's like when he's having a fit; he will nag me like a dwarrowdam from dawn to dusk. _And_ he'll get _Dori_ to do it, too!"

Nali's eyes twinkled, undeterred by Kíli's disapproval.

"Your Majesty," she winked. "This is _precisely_ how you want to stir to the pot. Because, the maid that's meant for you will be the one who won't lift a finger to change herself to catch your eye. She'll be the one you never see until she's made the choice to stand right in front of you, beautiful as she already is."

"Fine. But, why do I need to promise a courting gift?" Kíli insisted stubbornly; he couldn't quite shake the horror of dwarrow-maids throwing themselves at him.

Nali's teeth flashed bright in the sunlight.

"It's like panning for gold, dear sire. In order to spot the prize, you have to shake out the stones."

* * *

><p><strong>REFERNCE<strong>

**Gargbuzrâmrâg** - Per Dwarrow Scholar:_ "This holiday reflects the love of hard work the Dwarves have, followed by equally hard play. The holiday is named after the ceremonial position of the Harnkegger, which is given to a Dwarf who works conspicuously hard between spring festival and this holiday. The **Harnkegger** dons the traditional heavy boots and red garterbelt and gets the honor of tapping and sampling the first barrel of summer ale. Thus begins a 10 day festival of drinking ale, eating enormous amounts of food, gaming contests, and general merriment. On the last day, votes are taken and awards given for the best ale. The Dwarves work without cease from **Blessed Green Fest** till Harnkegger Fest, so they can take full advantage of this holiday. Though this was originally a Dwarf feast of Ered Luin, many other Dwarrow nations have adopted it."_

**Geis** -_ In Irish mythology and folklore, a geis is an idiosyncratic taboo, whether of obligation or prohibition, similar to being under a vow or spell. In the context of this story and my own particular head-cannon, I'm taking liberties and saying it's a sort of sacred vow._

**Úri** - _Father of the Firebeards._

**Linnar** - _Father of the Broadbeams._

**Year of Favor** - _It doesn't quite make sense to me that every dwarf would create something during the Deep Ale Fest/Harnkegger Fest/Gargbuzrâmrâg, since there are arguably basic civic duties that would have to be performed in order to keep everything flowing smoothly at both a social/personal level. So, I've made this term up, under the idea that dwarrow will choose a year to "skip" competition for the Harnkegger, so that they can help support those who are creating, crafting, etc. The basic idea is that a dwarf who chooses to take a "Year of Favor", has promised to keep things going while everyone else is hard at work in their forges/mines/work spaces._

**Harnkegger** - _See above (**Gargbuzrâmrâg**)._

**Frame drum** - A_nother name for a bodhrán, a type of hand-held drum._

**Secondborn** - _Another name for the race of Men._

**Tumunumahâl** - _The lost ancestral home of the Blacklocks._

**Blessed Green Fest** - Per Dwarrow Scholar:_ "The first day of the festival marks the cutting of the spring barley. A tradition of this feast is to carry a fresh straw of spring barley with you. Dwarrow woman are known to wear it in their hair while dwarrow males often carry it in their pockets. "The carrying of the straw", is a dwarven tradition which, according to legend, dates back to the first Dwarrow Spring Festival, held at the beginning of the Second Age. During this first festival, which the dwarves held in honor of Yavanna (the wife of their creator Mahal), Yavanna gave the Fathers of the dwarves each a straw of spring barley. This served to remind them of their dependence of nature. Many years later during the war of the last alliance at The Battle of Dagorlad (3434 Second Age), a regiment of dwarves lead by dwarven general Barin were carrying straws of spring barley in their pockets, which they had been offered during the start of the spring festival some time earlier. Though a vast amount of soldiers died, not a single one of the generals regiment perished. Since then it is considered good luck by most dwarves to carry a straw of spring barley in your pocket during the time of the spring festival."_

**Kibil-tarag** - _The lost ancestral home of the Stiffbeards. Per my own head-cannon, this would predate the building of Kivi Torni._


End file.
